Avatar: Rainbow
by Hawki
Summary: "Venezuela. That was some mean bush." As it turned out, that was an understatement. Because not only was Venezuela bereft of anything approaching forest, but it was the war inside the mind that had left the lasting scars on Jake. Because once he was a warrior, who thought he could bring peace in a world consumed by war. But in the end, you always had to wake up.
1. Yellow

**Avatar: Rainbow**

**Chapter 1: Yellow**

**July 27, 2144**

**Marine Corps Recruit Depot,**

**Parris Island**

Jacob Sully looked up at the sign. One of a number of people of various ages, skin colours, and with both sets of plumbing issued to the human species. Walking up to the receiving building on Parris Island. Glancing at the sign above.

**THROUGH THESE PORTALS PASS PROSPECTS FOR AMERICA'S FINEST FIGHTING FORCE.**

**UNITED STATES MARINES**

_Right, _he thought. _No pressure._

Pressure. Slowly shuffling forward to the building, towards the "gates of hell" as the recruiter had called it (something about "Devil Dogs" had been uttered as well), he felt it in abundance.

"Fuck."

He glanced to his right. A kid. Probably his age, unless he lied on the application form, but looking like a kid all the same. Glasses, brown hair, brown eyes, the type of kid that was always either being picked on in the schoolyard, or absent entirely by virtue of not wanting to be found.

"Fuck fuck fuck."

And unlike such kids, good at swearing, if a little unoriginal. Jacob had never been in a schoolyard – an interior play area, sure, but there wasn't enough room in most schools for actual schoolyards, not to mention that kids had to be kept indoors due to the pollutants that fouled the air all down the east coast and from what he'd heard, the west as well. But the kid, he could connect to. Because it was the type of kid he'd enjoyed bullying in the past.

"Shit."

The kid stopped moving. Jacob glanced at the sign. And then glanced back at the kid.

"Y'know, I think the idea is that we keep moving."

The kid looked up at him, and Jacob noted the height difference – how little of it there actually was.

"Um, portals?" Jacob asked. "They're beckoning."

The kid rubbed his hands together. "I know. I just…I mean…"

Jacob shrugged and kept walking.

He didn't check back to see if the kid followed him.

* * *

><p><em>Seriously Jake, the Marines? <em>

_Yeah, the Marines. Army seemed too tame._

_That's not what I mean. Christ, you have your whole life ahead of you! I-_

_Don't tell me how to live my life Tom. Ever._

* * *

><p><strong>July 30, 2144<strong>

It was Black Friday.

Ironically, it actually _did _fall on a Friday. Three days had passed since walking through "the portal." Three days of paperwork, medical tests, the loss of hair, and an initial strength test. Standing to attention, Jacob fought the urge to run his hand across the stubble that graced his forehead. Because it was Black Friday. The day Drill Instructor Fairbairn had decided to show up to make the recruits' life a living hell. Or because Captain Bowditch had given the order. He wasn't sure which. Right now, it didn't matter.

The events passed by in a blur. A lot of "sirs," a lot of "no's" and "yesses," and a hell of a lot of insults that applied to every gender, race, sexual orientation, profession, ancestry, and-

"Sully! What the fuck kind of name is that?!"

"Sir, it's my surname, Sir!"

He hadn't expected Fairbairn to come around to him. The people he'd singled out had all been people taller and/or muscular than him.

"Sully…dear God, what a fucked up name! You here to sully my Corps?!"

"Sir, no Sir!"

Surnames. It wasn't as bad as some of the other insults went.

"Bullshit! I know your type you lowly scum-sucking maggot!"

He probably did, Jacob reflected.

"Now get on the ground and give me twenty!"

Jacob obliged. He ignored the sergeant's insults, all of which were based on the million other insults he'd managed to cram into the bunk room in the space of less than five minutes.

"Dear God, what is the world coming to when fuck-nuggets like you get into my Corps?!"

And the insults were easy to ignore. Because the worst was out of the way.

The sergeant knew his type.

Tom had more or less said the same thing.

* * *

><p><em>Tom, I want to do it okay. Just…get out there, y'know? Fight for something? Save the world?<em>

_What's there left to save Jake?_

_Oh don't start that tree-hugging bullshit again._

_Jake, that drill instructor told you what he told everyone on Careers Day. You can't just rush into something like this._

_I can. And you can't stop me._

* * *

><p><strong>August 12, 2144<strong>

The martial arts program was quite easy.

Jacob had plenty of experience punching people. And kicking them for that matter. Usually the kicks followed the punches, considering that in his experience, a punch was usually enough to knock a dweeb to the ground. The kicks were enough to make sure they stayed there.

Right now though, it was just boxing. Punching a pad again and again, as Recruit Chalow struggled to hold it in place. The same twat that he'd seen at "the portal" three weeks ago. Already three weeks worth of training had taken their toll. The glasses were still there. The hair, however short, was still there. But the muscles were slightly larger, the skin slightly harder, the voice slightly deeper.

Which might have counted for something if the same couldn't have been said for Jacob himself. Because he kept punching. Right up until he sent Chalow falling down into the ground.

"Fuck."

Jacob flexed his fist as Chalow looked for his glasses.

"Come on, seriously?" he asked, Jacob asked. "You can't take a bit of boxing?"

"Fuck off."

Jacob spat at him. "Worthless. Absolutely worthless."

"I said fuck off."

"And I said you're worthless. And fat. And slow. And lazy. And a four-eyed dweeb who can't-"

Challow snapped.

It was strange, really, Jacob reflected. He'd gone through worse abuse under the instructors, as had Challow. His mind registered the irony as Challow's fist collided with his jaw, sending him falling down into the mud himself. He supposed in the instant that as Challow landed on top of him, continuing the punching, that they'd just both reached a breaking point that was simultaneous. One mind and teamwork and all that. Not that it stopped him from grabbing Challow's neck with his left hand, choking him while punching him with his right, then kicking the kid off him. And as he scrambled to continue the assault, the only thing that stopped the continuing fight was Bowditch grabbing him from behind and yelling right in his ear.

And he smiled. Even as Bowditch threatened him with starvation, castration, excommunication, and a lot of other things ending with "ion," he still smiled. Which didn't help the drill sergeant's temper one bit.

Though as he saw Challow get slowly to his feet, as he saw the twat reach for his glasses, only to find that they were broken, he reflected that it had been all worth it.

One-hundred push-ups later notwithstanding.

* * *

><p><em>Mum! Mum! Jake hit me!<em>

_Tom, I…oh my God, you're bleeding! Jake, what did you do?!_

_He started it!_

_Jake, this has gone far enough! I…Tom, put this to your nose and face upwards. Jake, what on Earth is wrong with you?!_

_I hate you! You always take his side!_

_Jake-_

_**I hate you!**_

* * *

><p><strong>August 22, 2144<strong>

In school, Jacob had learnt of places like Auschwitz. The gas chambers where a few million Jews and Gypsies had been put to death. A technique reviled and condemned in the 20th century, only to be repeated in the 22nd. It was something the recruiter had brought up. As a marine, he could help stop those things from happening.

But first he had to pass the USMC's version of the gas chamber. Which, after some jumping jacks to build up a sweat, had involved fitting on a gas mask before walking into the cooker. Or "the sieve" as Fairbairn had called it, the idea that it would filter out washouts before moving onto stage two of training. Something that had been happening for the past month, but so far, Jacob had stayed in. He'd told himself, and any smart arse who asked why he'd joined, that he was here for the hardship. To pass any test a man could pass. But now-

_I can't breathe._

The CBRN (chemical/biological/radiological/nuclear) officer was giving instructions but Jacob could barely hear. His head was pounding. His eyes watering. His chest, his heart…both on fire.

_I can't breathe!_

Was there something wrong with the seal? He tried fiddling around with it. Only to loosen it.

_Shit!_

And the sensation got worse. He gagged as his throat exploded in fire. As his eyes gushed like waterfalls.

"Recruit Sully?"

The CBRN was walking over to him.

"Recruit, the hell are you-"

"I can't breathe!"

And he ran. Bursting out of the door. Ignoring the jeers of the other jarheads. Out into the sunlight. Coughing and spluttering, he threw his mask down onto the ground. Gagging, he looked around for water. On instinct, he raised his hands to his eyes and started rubbing.

"I'd stop that Recruit."

And stopped. Because while rubbing his eyes was instinctive, by this stage, listening to Drill Instructor Fairbairn was instinctive as well. But even so-

"Stop rubbing your eyes!"

He stood to attention. Blinking in the place of rubbing, his hands shaking as his sub-consciousness tried to get them back to his eyes.

"Are you meant to be out here, Recruit?!"

"Sir!" Jacob coughed. "No…Sir."

The drill instructor picked the gas mask off the ground. "Useless. Absolutely useless." He tossed it over to Jacob. "Are you yellow, Recruit?"

"Sir, I don't understand, Sir!"

"Are you a coward?!"

"Sir, no, Sir!"

"Are you a liar?!"

"Sir, no, Sir!"

Fairbairn knocked him over the head. "That's a lie right there! Now put on your gas mask, get your sorry arse in there, or I'll sign your dismissal form myself!"

So it really was the sieve, Jacob reflected. Either bear the CS gas, or be binned. That far more efficient technology was available to civvies and standard issue on Pandora from what he'd heard notwithstanding.

"Move it Marine!"

And he did. Heading back into the CS chamber. Fixing on his mask. Hoping that this time, he'd got it right. Glad that for all the primitiveness of the gas mask, it at least prevented him from seeing the smirks that was no doubt on every other recruit's face. Steadying his heartbeat as best he could.

Choking to death. What a way to go.

As he and the other recruits began push-ups, as the gas swirled around them, Jacob reflected that's how his parents must have felt.

* * *

><p><em>Tom, I'm just heading out, and-<em>

_Mum's dead._

…_What?_

_Dad's dead._

_Tom I…what…_

_There…there was a fire Jake. On the subway. They…they choked to death._

…_you called me up to tell me this?_

_Jake, I thought it better you hear it from me. _

_Fuck you Tom._

_Jake…_

…

_The guys will be round soon. They'll want us at the crematorium. You…want me to come round?_

_What?_

_We…I think we should go together Jake._

…_yeah. I…yeah, that would be good._

* * *

><p><strong>September 4, 2144<strong>

"Outstanding Sully. Outstanding. Looks like you're not a limpdick after all."

_Thanks Sir. I think._

Primary Marksmanship Instructor Somerville wasn't as bad as Fairbairn, Jacob reflected. The insults were still there, but they were fewer, and balanced out with praise. It might have been something to with learning how to fire an M16 (a weapon that was a relic even by 21st century standards), but he'd taken the time to ensure that each of the remaining recruits could actually fire the bloody thing. And actually hit the target.

_Bullseye._

Jacob smirked as he reached for another clip. It felt good to be good at something again. To be _better _than someone. Case in point being Challow, who was struggling with his magazine.

"Magazine points towards the enemy numb nuts."

The four-eyes looked at him. "What?"

"The magazine. You're putting it in wrong."

"The hell do you care?"

Jacob raised an eyebrow. He wanted to say something clever, but no words came out. He didn't know. He supposed it was just one of those instinctive things. An instinct he hadn't possessed in the past but-

"Give it here."

Jacob leaned over and took the rifle, not checking to see if Somerville was looking. Challow looked on.

"See, the magazine points towards the enemy. And what else you've got to remember…"

"Why you helping me?"

Jacob looked up.

"Why you helping me?" Challow repeated, rubbing his glasses. "You hate my guts, right? That fist fight?"

Jacob shrugged. "We're in phase two of training. Way I see it that's ancient history."

"Oh. Sure." Challow put his glasses back on, apparently willing to take the words on faith. "Ancient history. Right Sully."

"Jake."

Challow took the rifle and lined up his sights.

"Name's Jake," he said. "I figure that out here we can operate on a first name basis.

Challow fired. And missed.

"I mean, that gas chamber…it was on my birthday, believe it or not. I mean, how fucked up is that? Day you're born, thinking you're gonna die…"

"You chickened out," Challow murmured, before firing again. And missing.

"Yeah, well…I came here for the hardship. I figure gas is just part of it."

Challow glanced over at Jacob. "How old are you?"

"Since last month? Eighteen."

"Right," Challow said, smirking. He lined up his sights. "Nineteen."

_Fuck._

He fired. And hit his target.

"Nice shot four-eyes. You might make it to Private after all."

Jacob swung back to his own firing position as Somerville passed by. But before firing he glanced at Challow again. And he glanced back.

"Name's Paul," he said. "Since we're on a first-name basis."

"Right," Jacob said. He returned to firing. "But I'm still the better shot. Just remember that four-eyes."

Challow fired. Jacob fired. And he smiled.

It felt good to be called Jake again.

Almost as good as scoring another bullseye.

* * *

><p><em>You are such a mummy's boy, you know that?<em>

_Well excuse me for reaping the benefits of straight A's._

_What about PE?_

_You think mum cares about PE Jake? Just because it's the only subject you're good at doesn't mean you get brownies for it._

_Shove off Tom._

_Face it Jake, I'm better. _

_I said shove off!_

* * *

><p><strong>September 28, 2144<strong>

"So where you from?"

"Kansas, the Dust Bowl. Since crops are a thing of the past, figured that enlisting was the best way to provide for the family."

"How paragonic of you."

"Paragonic isn't a word."

"Oh. Right."

Jake took Challow's word for it and continued cleaning his rifle. His hands were hard, his muscles harder, and he was sick of yelling how his rifle was special and reciting its serial number. But the Crucible would begin tomorrow. Tomorrow, he'd be grouped into a squad chosen at random, shipped off to Page Airfield, and enjoy 54 hours of hell, as Fairbairn had oh so eloquently put it.

But even if he'd never admit it, he was looking forward to it. Because after being here for two months, if anything, he wanted to see it through. Somehow, he and Challow had become friends. Somehow, he'd managed to avoid washing out.

"Y'know, my sister's fifteen. Maybe I could set you up next year."

Case in point. But Jake kept cleaning the rifle.

"So where you from anyway?" Challow asked.

"Boston." Jake laid the rifle to the side of his bunk. "City boy through and through."

"Oh yeah?" Challow asked. "What's it like?"

"What's what like?"

"City living."

Jake shrugged. "Cramped, for one thing. There's twenty billion people on this planet and it's like Boston's got most of them." He sighed. "Oh, and dirty, and I'm not just talking about surface level. Had to wear a rebreather every time I headed outside. Suppose that's one thing country boys don't have to worry about."

"You kidding?" Challow asked. There's so much dust in the mid-west I could barely leave the house." He sighed. "Y'know, when I think of my family back there…I mean, well, I can't help but think I got lucky, y'know? Least out here I don't have to worry about choking to death."

Jake remained silent. City life…the air reeked, the food reeked, water didn't flow half the time, and he'd sucked it up as best he could. Tom…he shook his head. Tom had always been the whiner. It was Tom who'd been taken out of school for a month for asthma, the prick spending all of that month keeping up with his schoolwork. Never watching the afternoon cartoons but instead being an anti-social mummy's boy.

"So that's why you're here then?" Challow asked. "Great outdoors?"

Jake didn't answer and went back to his rifle.

"Jake?"

"Yeah, sure," he murmured. "Great outdoors."

He decided not to tell Challow the truth. That the reason he was here was to test himself. Find something worth doing. Because as grim as city life was, it was still life. The food sucked, but there was enough of it. The air was foul, but you could still remain healthy if you knew what you were doing. And there were plenty of ways to get entertainment. Sims, drugs, sex, heck, even the gym.

But for now, best to stick with being the nobody. Because chances were that he and Challow would end up in different squads. Let the guy think they were in the same league. A delusion that he and Tom had ended years ago.

It was such a thought that occupied Jake's mind as he field stripped his rifle again.

* * *

><p><em>Stanford eh? So you'll be among your own kind then.<em>

_Hardy hah hah. _

_What's your degree again?_

_Xeno-biology. I'll probably major in xeno-linguistics._

_Xeno…what? You mean the na'vi? Tom, are you seriously thinking of throwing your life away?_

_Says the person who enlisted._

_Yeah, well, least I'll still be on Earth, not in lardy lah lah land with the Martians._

_Laugh all you want Jake, I've already got an internship with the RDA. They'll pay for my college fees while you're paid…whatever it is you're paid._

_It's not about the pay Tom. It's about getting out there and actually doing something._

…_huh._

_Huh what?_

_Getting out and doing something…that's what I'm doing Jake. _

* * *

><p><strong>October 1, 2144<strong>

**Page Airfield**

"Shit, drones!"

Jake reached for his training rifle, only to fumble it. The last three days had been a nightmare of patrols, simulated wounds, sleep deprivation, and every other piece of shit the drill instructors had thrown at them. Up until this very second, the prospect of shooting low-frequency lasers at drones would have seemed like paradise. Right now though-

"Get some!"

It was terrifying.

But he still fired. The drones were low altitude, each with a pair of fans. Not used in battlefields much, but there was always the chance.

"Fall back!"

It was Challow who gave the order. The squad's acting sergeant. A thin grey line of men and women steadily backstepped, firing their lasers repeatedly. Reloading as they had to, per simulating a rifle's actual magazine size.

"Keep firing!"

Like he needed an excuse, Jake reflected. But he did so. And before long, every one of the drones had stopped flying, as an imaginary bullet caused imaginary damage.

"Cease fire."

And he did so. He looked at Challow. The man grinning. His eyes shining behind his glasses. Muscular arms holding what looked like a dinky rifle.

"Great job kid," he said to Jake. "But you need to draw your weapon a bit faster."

"Yeah, sure Paul," he murmured.

"Challow," his friend said. "Call me Challow."

"Yeah," Jake murmured, watching the squad move off to continue the simulation. "No problem."

* * *

><p><em>Pandora. A moon of the gas giant Polyphemus, situated in the Alpha Centauri system. First discovered in 2129. Currently home to over 1000 employees of the Resources Development Administration, Pandora is the world's source of unobtanium, the lifeblood of the global mag-lev system and matteranti-matter power generation._

_Not interested Tom._

_Not interested? Jake, I'm going there. If the Avatar Program accepts me, I'll be talking with the na'vi. Actual intelligent aliens!_

_Yeah, well, tell me, are the aliens flying around in starships and asking to see our leaders? Can I go and shoot them?_

_Shoot them? Jake, the entire point of the program is to prevent shooting and…and no, they don't fly around, or do anything like that. Well, not in spaceships but-_

_Okay then. Like I said, not interested._

* * *

><p><strong>October 11, 2144<strong>

It was Family Day. And on a bench by "the portal," Jake sat alone.

He didn't glance back at the sign that had greeted him two months ago. He wasa marine now, and he didn't need any sign to tell him that. Instead, what told him was the uniform. The hat he was wearing. The timetable that Captain Rothschild had given him as to his assignment at the School of Infantry. Between now and then, he had ten days leave before having to turn up at Camp Geiger. Ten days where he could more or less do whatever he wanted. Ten days, and he had no idea how to spend them.

"Jake!"

He ignored the voice. He knew who it belonged to. And deep down, in a part of him training had tried to seal away, he felt a flutter. The same kind of flutter he'd felt when he'd shown his parents his certificate of achievement in PE. The feeling that came from knowing that for once, he could show off an achievement in school and not have to stomach them fawning over his brother.

"Jake!"

His brother. Tom Sully. The man who was walking over to him, and calling to him. Jake stood up, keeping his movement slow. He owed nothing to Tom, he reminded himself. He could sit up at whatever speed he damn well liked, not spring to attention for any officer, commissioned or otherwise.

"Hey bro," Jake murmured.

And yet Tom was here. They'd conversed over the net and he'd mentioned Family Day, that he'd be on leave for ten days, and if his brother wanted to see him in that period of time, he'd have no objections. No pressure of course.

"Hey Jake."

And cue the reunion.

"You look…good."

And the awkwardness.

"Thanks."

"The uniform. It looks…nice."

Lots of awkwardness.

That said, the assessment was one Jake could agree with. It felt…good, to be wearing something. He'd never had to wear uniform at school. Some schools used uniforms, but you needed quite a bit of money to go to those establishments, and money was something that the Sully household had never possessed in great abundance (like many other things). Though admittedly not lacked either.

"Gotta say," Jake said, beginning to walk along the grass, not meeting his brother's gaze. "Didn't think you'd show."

"Well, don't get used to it. I've got three assignments due this week, plus some more lab training as part of the internship. Only got here using the mag-lev."

Jake nodded. And despite himself, looked at his brother. He wore black trousers, a white collared shirt, and carried a jacket draped over one hand. It looked formal. Like a uniform of another kind. Of another world.

"So…" Tom said, as they still walked. "What's next for you? Now that you've graduated."

"AIT," Jake murmured.

"Pardon?"

"Advanced infantry training," Jake said. "More combat techniques before assignment."

"Any idea where?"

"Venezuela, according to scuttlebutt."

"Right," Tom said softly. "Venezuela."

Jake noticed that Tom's pace had slowed. He stopped walking. And Tom did as well.

"Something you want to say?" he asked.

"No."

"Really?"

"Well, y'know…Venezuela, the oil…do you have any idea how much deforestation it's suffered? It-"

"Christ!" Jake threw up his hands and advanced on Tom. He was in uniform, he could kill with his pinkie, and once, just _once_, he wanted his brother to back down.

He didn't.

"Deforestation, oil, it's always the same with you! People are dying and all you care about is how many trees are saved!"

"I didn't say that."

"We've got people over there risking their lives so that you can-"

"For what Jake, for what? So we can get some of the last drops of oil on the planet?"

"There's a war going on!"

"A war that we're only making worse!"

Jake clenched his fist. He wanted to punch his brother. Break his teeth, kick him while he was down, yell that mummy and daddy were no longer around to take his side. But he couldn't. And Tom…suddenly, Tom looked different. Older, despite being his twin. Tired, almost.

"Come on," Tom said. "I didn't come here to fight."

"Course not. You're a civvie."

He began walking away. Inviting his brother was a mistake. They'd been cordial enough on the net. But everything was…wrong.

"Jake, I've been accepted into the Avatar Program."

Very wrong. So wrong that Jake stopped in his tracks. And turned round.

"Avatar?" he asked.

"Yeah, Avatar," he said. "It's the RDA's-"

"Tom, I know what the Avatar Program is. I mean…you…"

Tom sighed, turned around, and started walking. Sitting down on the bench where Jake had once been. For awhile, he remained silent, running a hand through his hair. Hair much longer than Jake's was, even if it was the same colour.

But when he looked up, he was smiling. As if he were a child again.

"Jake," he said. "It's…going well, okay? Really well. I mean, Stanford, the internship…they want me Jake."

"The RDA gay for you?"

"Hah hah. I mean, think about it? Do you know how many people get to leave Earth, let alone the solar system? How much it'll cost to grow an Avatar for me?"

"I'm guessing a lot."

"Billions." Tom laughed. "But hey, I'm worth it Jake, that's how much faith they've got in me. And the trip…I mean…it…"

"It's what you've always wanted?"

"Yeah," Tom said, his voice earnest and honest. "Yeah, it is."

And Jake believed him. He'd known. Even before Stanford. Pandora this, Alpha Centauri that. The mentions had been sporadic over the years of their lives, but they'd still been constant. And Tom was…well, living the dream, as the saying went. The type of boy who'd always watch science fact rather than science fiction, and now he could star in science reality. And as his brother, Jake sat down beside him.

"Both in our own jungles eh?"

"Yeah," Tom said, putting his hands together. "I mean, there's more jungle there than here, but…well, same principle I guess."

Jake nodded. Slowly. Wondering what to say. Good luck? Keep in touch? How much did it cost to send messages across…however far it was between Earth and Alpha Centauri-whatever-it-was? How long was Tom going to be there? When did he leave?

"You wanna get something to eat?"

Best to start with the small questions, he decided.

"Sure," Tom said. "Got good grub here?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Dunno." Jake laughed sullenly. "Depends on what you like nowadays I guess. Or what algae flavours at least.

There was so much he didn't know. What the future would bring. For both of them.

But for now, right this moment, he did know this – Tom was his brother.

And right now, he welcomed that.

* * *

><p><em>AN_

_There's a bit of a story behind this story (no, that's not the first time I've used that phrase). It's covered on my homepage, but I'll give the lowdown here._

_The idea for this was to take up a writing challenge - write a seven chapter story with the titles corresponding to the song _I Can See a Rainbow_, and have each of the song's represented colours tie into some aspect of each chapter. Somehow, I settled on writing an _Avatar _prequel, charting Jake's activities prior to the film. It was originally going to be more upbeat, but, well, that comes more into play in later chapters._

_So, this chapter. Involved far more research into USMC training than I cared for, as well as watching clips from _Jarhead _and _Full Metal Jacket _(which, at least in the latter's case, were a bit more entertaining). In the final revisions done to this chapter, I did end up adding the Crucible scene, if only to get in the actual scene where Pandora was discussed. Cut down on the action though, for various reasons, and to give Challow some more foreshadowing. Oh, and fun fact, the subway idea came from the original script, were Tom was meant to die in a subway fire._

_Anyway, that's that. Next update will come in January I'm afraid, as I'll be overseas until January 6th. So until then, kìyevame. :)_


	2. Blue

.

**Avatar: Rainbow**

**Chapter 2: Blue**

**February 8, 2145**

_**Voyager**_**-class amphibious assault ship **_**Gateway**_

**Caribbean Sea**

"Ugh…I'm gonna die. I'm gonna _die_…"

"Keep whining and you will, burro."

Jake had picked up enough Spanish over the few months he'd known Felipe Nieto to understand that he'd just called Challow a "donkey." A "jackass" in other words. And given how Challow was moaning about dying as he lay on his bunk, he couldn't blame him.

"Ugh…I'm gonna be ill."

"Then do it in the bathroom," Jake said, lying on his own bunk. He looked up at the mattress above, the one where Challow was resting. "But either throw up or shut up."

There was some kind of wet sound up above. A sound followed by that of footsteps as Challow sprung down from the bunk, ran into the bathroom, slammed the door, and made a sound like a dying animal.

_Ugh. _Jake looked at Nieto, the Mexican playing on his Orca. "How the heck does Challow get sick anyway? Heck, it doesn't even feel like we're moving.

Nieto shrugged, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Opposite placebo effect, ya know? Boy thinks he should be sick, so he gets sick."

Another wet sound came from the bathroom.

"Very sick."

Jake smirked and sat on the edge of his bunk. The bottom bunk, one of six the cabin featured that he shared with members of his fireteam – members of 1st Force Recon sent with the 26th Marine Expeditionary Unit, headed to Venezuela. The smirk continued as Nieto kept playing. "How's the game?"

"Medico." Nieto kept playing.

"Never thought you were the RPG type."

"We go to Caribbean," Nieto said, still playing on the Orca. "I play long game, for we there long time. Hopefully I survive in both game and life."

"Yeah, right." Jake sighed. If life was a game, it needed a reset button.

Another wet sound came from the bathroom.

And a mute button.

The marine got to his feet. The _Voyager _was one day away from entering Venezuelan waters. In one day's time they'd be deployed to Puerto Cabello before…well, that was still up in the air. FUBAR or SNAFU depending on who one talked to.

"Mierda!"

He looked at Nieto. "Died?"

"Si."

"Right." Jake got to his feet. "I'm heading out."

"Where to?"

"I dunno, just out."

The sound of a flushing toilet, followed by another wet sound, echoed from the bathroom.

"Won't be back for awhile either."

Nieto nodded and kept playing. Putting on some shoes, Jake headed out into the corridor.

One more day before deployment.

He supposed he should try to make the most of it.

* * *

><p>"Damn."<p>

Jake looked at the words **NO CONNECTION **displayed on the terminal in front of him. Tom either wasn't available or wasn't answering, and giving himself the benefit of the doubt, Jake staked his guess on the former.

**LEAVE MESSAGE?**

The Ethernet was an impatient mistress, but on a ship like _Voyager_, it came with the territory. There was a single room dedicated to terminals where crew and passengers could hold timed conversations with whomever they wanted, wherever that person was on the planet. The service itself was free, but the time wasn't. And once you signed in, that was it. Ten minutes per day.

**LEAVE MESSAGE?**

Jake sighed and hit ENTER, the "Leave Message?" sign disappearing and showing a display of Tom's dorm on campus. A placeholder image that hid the real thing. Having lived in the same bedroom with Tom most of his life, Jake could guess what the dorm looked like in reality.

"Hey Tom."

He leant back in his chair, running a hand through his hair – slightly longer than it had been five months ago, but shorter than it had been before he signed up. Keeping his hair within regulation length had become natural to him.

"I…hope you're well."

Jake sighed and leant back even further, not caring that his apparent indifference would be caught on the recorded message. Email was still an option, but he found it even harder to articulate his thoughts in those messages. But still, he had no idea what to say. He had no idea how Tom was doing, or bar pursuing his degree and RDA work, _what _he was exactly doing either.

"Well, I'm one day away from Venezuela. And…yeah." He sat forward. He'd tried. He'd really tried. There wasn't much to describe as far as ship-to-ship operations went, but dammit, he wanted to say _something_.

"We'll be deploying tomorrow. Puerto Cabello. Never heard of it until we were briefed stateside but…well, that's why I joined up, I guess. See the world. Fight for something."

He smiled. This was becoming easier.

"Yeah," Jake continued, leaning back in his chair again, but as a move to convey confidence rather than indifference. "It's…good, being here. Some of the guys from boot are still with me. Squad I'm with are all new to me besides Challow, but…look, I'll be fine. Official word is that we're only going in for support, same deal that Brazil's getting. But look, the rebels…well, they ain't dealt with us yet. And once they do, I figure this war will be wrapped up in a week. Month at most."

He hoped so, but the deployment had been rushed and he still possessed doubts. FORECON usually operated on a pre-deployment training program, and they'd done so as best they'd could in VR. But all he really knew was that rebels were operating, both the US and Brazil wanted their oil supply secure, and had decided to bypass usual diplomacy by sending ships to the country. It sounded…Jake sighed. He couldn't afford doubt, and he leant forward, raising a hand in a salute from an old sci-fi show they'd once watched as kids. One of the shows that Tom, even in his pursuit of science fact, had enjoyed.

"Peace out bro."

And he hit ENTER again. And through the cloud that covered the entirety of planet Earth, a message was sent to Stanford University, California, dorm and address whatever.

And he leant back in the chair again, running his dog tags through his fingers. It wasn't the longest message he'd ever sent, but he doubted he could have made it much longer. And he felt…better. Lighter. Like something that had been on his chest had been removed.

"Nice message. Short but sweet."

And the chair swung forward. Then swivelled around.

"Easy there Sully."

And he kept himself in place only because of the voice. Because not only was Ahonui Mori a lieutenant, her voice had the quality of making him want to stand to attention anyway.

"Your brother still not answering?"

He shrugged. He wasn't too keen on discussing family matters. And Mori didn't even lead his platoon.

"Well, don't worry about it. You're here, he's there. And you're here for a reason."

Jake nodded. He believed it. He just didn't know why Mori felt the need to tell him again.

Then again, he didn't know much about Mori, period. Only that she was ethnically Chuukese, and that according to rumour, her forebears were among the climate refugees of the late 21st century, forced out of Micronesia as sea levels rose and either made many Pacific islands uninhabitable due to salinity or swallowed them up completely (a "tragedy" Tom wouldn't shut up about whenever the subject came up). But one way or another, she was in the Marines now. Pasts didn't matter.

"It'll be good to get on land," she mused. "Down south."

Supposedly.

"You been on top of deck today Sully?" she asked.

He shrugged.

"Come on. We're passing one of the agri-complexes. Always worth a sight."

Jake got to his feet, realizing that Mori was a head taller than him. Wondering if he could refuse, and whether it would be wise to. Most of the trip had been spent below decks. And since he'd be on land tomorrow morning…

_Well, what the hell. Fresh air will do me good._

* * *

><p>Jake shivered as he and Mori stepped up onto the deck. Listening to and seeing the surf around the assault ship, he began to sympathize with Challow. The ship <em>was <em>moving, the seas _were _rough, and…well, seeing them now, he was beginning to understand.

"You okay Private?"

He looked at Mori. "I'm not exactly a sea guy."

"Oh, right. City boy eh?"

Jake shrugged. City boy indeed. He could only remember visiting the beach once as part of a field trip. No-one could swim in the waters around Boston, or most other places down the eastern seaboard. Too much mercury and other toxins in the water, not to mention that thanks to rising sea levels, there was a swathe of inundated structures around the coast. Not the kind of places teachers wanted their students playing in.

But he was a marine now, not some snot-nosed kid from Dorchester Elementary. So standing tall, ignoring the icy wind, he followed Mori as they walked across the deck. A few swabbies were out and about, but no aircraft were currently on deck. Deployment would occur tomorrow, but it would be amphibious.

"And there it is," Mori said as they reached the other side. "Agri-Complex Bonaire. Named after the island."

Bonaire. Part of the Lesser Antilles island chain, as someone had mentioned at some point on this trip. But that was as far as Jake's recollections went. Because seeing the agri-complex now, "named after" an island didn't do the thing justice. If anything, Agri-Complex Bonaire was an island of its own.

"Neat eh?"

Neat. No-one said the Corps needed sophisticated vocabulary to operate.

"Yeah," Jake murmured. "Neat."

He knew about agri-complexes. They were operated by the Resources Development Administration and scattered throughout the oceans of the planet, mainly its equatorial regions. Huge sea farms designed to grow algae and edible protein to feed Earth's 20 billion inhabitants on a planet with so little arable land thanks to degradation and urban sprawl, that the algae farms were the only things keeping humanity alive.

_And the Corps too._

He couldn't help but smile. If Tom were here he'd have gone into lecture mode. That the algae farms were a symbol of how mankind had screwed up the Earth, that they were obscene, and all that other green hippie crap.

"Ugly thing."

He looked at Mori. "What?"

"The algae farms." She sighed. "You ever eat much Sully?"

"City boy L.T. One meal a day for the most part. My brother and I would try to steal each other's grub."

"Right." She sighed. "Y'know, it's funny. Washington wants Venezuela secured for its oil exports. So does Rio. I wonder what would happen if there was a shortage of algae, what the world's nations would do then." She spat over the side of the ship, down into the deep blue sea. "Bloody gunk."

Jake remained silent. He expected this kind of language from Tom, not a jarhead with CO status.

"Still, it's pretty safe. The RDA looks out for its own. And us."

He still remained silent. He looked over the complex, as hover-bots dredged out sections of the water, carrying the algae with them. He looked at the smaller drones that patrolled the perimeter. Seizing algae complexes was practically impossible due to them being almost entirely automated, with little room for humans to stand on. And destroying them was not only difficult due to their immense size, but counter-productive. Rebels and terrorists were dicks, but they wanted to be alive dicks. Suicide bombers notwithstanding.

"I'm leaving the Corps you know Sully."

And Jake stopped reflecting on complexes, terrorists, and what Tom might have said had he been here. Because Mori had spoken again. And she'd spoken the last words a jarhead like him would ever want to hear.

"Once this tour is over, I'm leaving. SecOps has made me a good offer. Mars patrol. Protection of the Ceraunius Tholus complex." She looked at Jake. "Does that bother you, Private? Me quitting because of a better paycheck and less chance of being shot at?"

Jake remained silent.

"Well?" she said, taking a step towards him. "Is it?"

"It's not my place to say," Jake said in a monotone. "Sir."

"Speak freely Private, I won't judge you."

"Then…can I judge you? Sir?"

"Go ahead."

"I think you're turning your back on your friends, your family, and your country. I think you're a coward. And I think the only reason you're leaving is that you want the paycheck."

Mori raised an eyebrow. Then sniggered. Then laughed. Laughed so loud the sea itself was drowned out. Kept laughing even as she ruffled what was left of the marine's hair.

"Cute," she said. "I like that Sully. Call me again in a decade and tell me how things turn out for you."

"I may just do that."

The smile faded. Mori had given him permission to judge. Now it seemed like she was out to play jury. Or at least she was until she took out a picture from her uniform's chest pocket. A small picture, showing two young girls. Twins, most likely, Jake thought.

_Like Tom and me._

"These are my girls," she said. "Jane, and Anefai. They live in a state-sponsored communal dwelling in Nebraska. That algae, you saw Jake? They get to have one serving of it once every two days, and have to share it. I barely get to see them. And every time I do…" She swallowed, and Jake could see her throat throbbing. "Every time I see them they seem a bit smaller. A bit dirtier. A bit hungrier. They…" She closed her eyes before pocketing the photo. "So yeah. I'm taking the Mars job. I'm going to see them even less. But it means I get to send them more money. Build up their savings account so when they turn eighteen, they might have a chance to…well, have a chance. So they don't have to do what I did."

Jake bit his lip. He'd seen girls like Jane and Anefai. The type of children news networks showed to remind everyone that as bad as life was for you, it could be worse. How over the years, more and more of those children had been within his own country.

"Mars though," he murmured. "It takes, what, two months to get there?"

"If it's close, otherwise it can take up to six." Mori chuckled. "Much shorter than the rest of the solar system though, let alone Pandora."

Pandora. Tightening a fist, Jake was reminded of how Tom had gone on and on about that bloody moon.

"Anyway," Mori said, her voice normal, or at least as close to normal a voice could be without actually being normal. "Have fun in Venezuela Private." She gave a casual salute, and Jake fought the instinct to salute back. "Like I said, call me."

And she walked off. Back across the deck. Back towards the entrance that would take her back into the ship's bowels. Back down into the hulk of iron and steel that was the _Gateway_.

And Jake stood there. Looking at the agri-complex. Looking at the drones, the waves, the rain that filtered down through the sky. Rain that was quite acidic, he recalled Tom or a teacher telling him once. Something to do with the high levels of CO2 in the atmosphere. He fiddled with his dog tags – name, service number, rank. He recited them all in his mind.

And then he left as well. He had a war to fight tomorrow. And Mori…He tried to forget her. What she'd said.

Unsuccessfully.

* * *

><p><strong>February 9, 2145<strong>

From within the hovercraft, Jake watched as the stern gate of the assault slowly opened. The drizzle of yesterday had become a downpour. Last he'd heard it would clear up in a few hours' time, giving them a second shower for the day before arriving in port.

"Ugh."

He looked at Nieto, his gaze grim as he watched the stern gate open as well. Some phrases crossed language barriers.

"Don't get it," the marine continued. "We have aircraft, no? Why take sea?"

"EMPs."

Jake looked at Challow. One way or another his seasickness had ended. He looked at them, peering through his foggy glasses.

"Electronic warfare," the PFC continued, tightening the straps on his backpack. "Want to minimize air usage less an EMP takes them down. And it isn't that hard to get a torpedo these days either."

The stern gate came to rest on the water. Someone barked orders for deployment.

"So, we use the hovercraft," Challow continued, his gaze impassive behind his glasses. "Slower, wetter, but safer."

"Yeah, yeah," Jake murmured. "You'd make a great spokesperson you know."

Nieto sniggered, and so did some of the other fireteam members. Jake stopped when Challow glared at him, the gaze now anything _but _impassive. Breaking eye contact, he went back to adjusting the straps of his own backpack. Ammo, rations, more ammo, a radio, sleeping duffel, and even more ammo was quite heavy.

"Moving out!"

And he stopped and grabbed hold of the hovercraft's side-rail as it slid out into the water. Shivering as the rain lashed against his clothes and skin, soaking both. Squinting through the rain, to his left, he saw only empty sea. To his right, more sea. And chancing a look behind, where the assault ship had been yesterday, he could make out Agri-Complex Bonaire. And squinting, he could even make out the faint images of the drones that patrolled it. That kept Earth's inhabitants fed.

He wanted to speak. Make a joke that by the end of the tour there'd be a million or so less mouths for agri-complexes to feed. But he couldn't. Because as he opened his mouth, he remembered Mori. He remembered her daughters. He remembered how she'd casually just told him that she was leaving.

_And why me, anyway?_

"Hey chico, you look cold," Nieto said.

"I am cold!" Challow yelled.

Jake kept his head down. He was cold too, but wasn't in the mood to discuss it.

_I'm leaving the Corps Sully._

He tightened his grip on the hand rail.

_Once this tour is over, I'm leaving. SecOps has made me a good offer. Mars patrol. Protection of the __Ceraunius Tholus complex._

And tightened it even further.

_Does that bother you, Private? Me quitting because of a better paycheck and less chance of being shot at?_

"Yes."

"What you say Sully?"

He looked behind him at one of the fireteam members –Corporal Trinh Tan Hung. The fireteam's leader, and looking as cold as any of the group.

"Nothing," he said.

_Liar._

He shook his head. Mori's question lingered in his mind. And he'd answered yesterday. But looking back, he felt like kicking himself. Because in his mind, he could see Mori's daughters. He could see in his mind what the central US was like, because he'd seen it in images before – a wasteland. Like many areas of Earth where so much erosion had gone on that land-based agriculture had collapsed. Had necessitated the creation of places like Agri-Complex Bonaire. People like Mori's daughters were starving. And moments ago, he'd been on the cusp of a joke as to how many people he could kill.

Tightening his backpack again, Jake kept silent for the rest of the trip. Maybe, if it came to killing, it wouldn't be a million deaths, or a thousand, or a hundred, or even ten. And if it came to killing, maybe it would save lives. Maybe…maybe…

He sighed. And shivered. And around him the deep blue sea churned, like a monster trying to beckon him to enter the belly of the beast.

This was turning out to be a long boat trip.


	3. Orange

.

**Avatar: Rainbow**

**Chapter 3: Orange**

**February 9, 2145**

**Puerto Cabello,**

**Carabobo**

It had stopped raining by the time they reached the port. But as evaporation took its toll, Jake shivered anyway.

His uniform was soaked. His rucksack felt 10 kilos heavier, as if it had become a bucket and stored all the water that had fallen over the last few hours. And it wasn't making marching along the dockside any easier, as the MEU filed out from the boats to the waiting transports that were scattered throughout the docks.

"Nice place huh?"

Jake ignored Challow as he took a moment to look around at the decaying sight. Cranes stood motionless. There were far fewer shipping containers than he expected, and even fewer staff, all of them blending into the background. He supposed that the brass had called ahead for the docks to be cleared for the jarheads to move out from, but there was something…off, about the place, he decided. Like it was standing as testament to better days, but was now dying. That he was walking through a graveyard.

Like Boston, really, he reflected. And with that thought in mind, he kept walking. The MEU would be headed south to the frontline at Apure, where the Brazilian Army waited for them. FORECON would be remaining in the north.

"Move it Sully."

He kept walking as Challow gave him a shove. Actually, remaining in the north was all he knew right now. Making their way to the RZ, where the 150 members of 1st Force Recon stood ready, he hoped that the company commander could enlighten them.

"Move it!"

"Alright, alright," he murmured, picking up the pace as he glanced back at Challow. "What's your problem?"

Challow didn't answer and Jake kept walking. He told himself that his fellow marine was still getting over seasickness. But then he heard Nieto sniggering and mentioning something about a placebo up Challow's arse, and settled on that explanation instead. And kept it in mind as he joined his platoon – one of six that made up the unit.

"Atten-shun!"

And cast it out of his mind as training took hold, as he forgot about his rucksack, his shivering, and anything else that might stop him from putting his boots on the ground in a certain way. Because if there was one thing that the likes of Fairbairn, Bowditch, and every other jackass at Parris Island had taught him, it was that when someone yelled "attention," you damn well paid attention.

"At ease."

Especially when that someone was your company commander.

Up in front of the unit, he could see the faint outline of Captain Redwood and other members of his command staff. First Lieutenant Berghan, First Sergeant Loggins…

"Welcome to Venezuela. As our little boat ride demonstrated, the weather sucks. And let me tell you, the food sucks, the grog sucks, and its troopers suck so much that they need marines to bail them out."

"Pep talk. Nice," he heard Hung murmur.

Jake barely heard him. It _was _a pep talk, and the type he'd heard before. But while training had made him love pep talks as much as being the "priest of death" the USMC wanted him to be, he was more interested in what came after it. Because he was here. With FORECON. First deployment. And that…well, it meant something, he told himself. He was here for a reason.

"While the MEU is heading south, we'll be heading west to the front. The rebels contain everything west from San Carlos, and it's our job to make sure they don't get any further. So, we've got a nice ride waiting for us to take us to Camp Bianco in Yaracuy, where the twenty-fifth MEU is waiting for us. Your lieutenants will brief you en route."

"Long trip, nice," Nieto murmured.

Jake smirked – long trip indeed. More game time.

"That'll be all. Dismissed."

Three-hundred boots thumped the ground, and those same three-hundred began moving around. Jake saw Second Lieutenant House move over towards Redwood, while Staff Sergeant Barrett began yelling orders that amounted to "hurry up and get to the trucks." Which Jake and his fellow marines obliged in.

"Great, more travel," Challow murmured.

"Give it a rest Private," Hung said.

"Don't tell me to give it a rest you-"

"Challow?" said Ghost. "Shut up."

Ghost. Francine Kwalu, the fifth member of their fireteam. So nicknamed because she virtually never spoke. And after that little exchange, Jake went back to forgetting she even existed.

So he kept walking, remembering what the captain had said. They were in Puerto Cabello, in the state of Carabobo. Yaracuy was immediately to the west, and the northern front of the country's civil war. One that was apparently escalating given the involvement of the United States and Brazil, to the extent that it seemed Venezuela wasn't fighting a war at all. After all, he hadn't seen a Venezuelan greet them or anything. Which could mean a lot of things. Things that he'd rather not dwell on. Thus, with the rest of his fellow soldiers, he climbed into the back of the truck. Open, exposed, and while a tralupin might be raised, it wouldn't do much in the event of an ambush or IED.

Right now though, finally able to sit down, finally starting to feel warm, he was too tired to care.

* * *

><p>If the docks were a graveyard, the city was a wasteland.<p>

Jake had never been to a graveyard before. No-one was buried nowadays anyway due to lack of space and the expenses involved. But he'd heard of graveyards, read about them, had seen pictures of them as well. Graveyards had headstones. Graveyards were indications that people had once been alive. Even if the port had seemed static, it was testament to the fact that it had once operated, and probably not too long ago.

The same couldn't be said for Puerto Cabello.

As the trucks rolled through the narrow streets, he could see people. Old, young, in-between, none of them looking healthy. Not a single vehicle made its way through the streets. The streets themselves were dirty, cracked, potholes everywhere. Litter blew across them, dogs trotted along, none of them looking healthy. And already he could have sworn he'd seen a body or two. Just lying there with no signs of physical harm. The people and the trucks just moving by.

Puerto Cabello was a graveyard. The dead were here, as were those waiting to die.

And still the trucks moved on. The sky was clear, but it was the only visual relief he had. Hills surrounded the town, all deprived of vegetation, all of them featuring dwellings that as far as he could tell, were made out of scrap. Tom had told him about erosion a few years back, that with the removal of trees on hillsides, landslides would become more common, especially when exposed to physical agents such as rain. And yet the people had to live somewhere.

The bodies entered his mind again.

_And die somewhere._

"You alright Jake?"

He looked at Hung. "Pardon?"

"You don't look too good."

"I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"I said I'm fine," he snapped. "God, I don't need a babysitter."

Hung remained silent, and Jake could tell that he knew he was lying. But it didn't bother him as much as seeing the body in the street. He was a marine. Trained to kill. If he couldn't get over a body or two, then what hope did he have on the battlefield?

"Jake…"

He sighed and looked around the truck, as the other FORECON members did their own things. Challow looked sullen, silently staring out across the truck. Nieto was playing on his Orca, a few beeps and boops reaching Jake's ears over the rumble of the truck. Ghost sat silently at the rear, content to ignore, and be ignored. And Hung was…

Well, Trinh Tan Hung was in his late twenties, and therefore the eldest member of his fireteam. An age that also meshed up with him having previous experience in Nigeria, and was the only member of the fireteam to have battlefield experience, period. Jake knew that he was ethnically Vietnamese, but had lived in the states since birth, was married, and had a four year old son. And assuming that Trinh Tan Hung Jr was anything like Jake had been at four years old, lying was probably something that came naturally for the kid. And something that any father would pick up on.

The truck bounced as it hit a pothole. Cheers and jeers rang out throughout the passengers. And taking off his helmet, Jake sighed.

"This seem…off, to you?"

"Hmm?"

"This," he said. "I mean, yeah, we gotta fight. We gotta move to the front, but…" He swung an arm around to gesture to the city, to the decaying structures where decaying men and women dwelled. "What's being done to help these people huh? I mean, sure, they need our help, fighting off the bad guys, but…well, who's helping them?"

"Other people?" Hung asked. "The Venezualan government? I'm sure charity groups will help. Not to mention-"

"Yeah, but…" Jake sighed. "Look, I mean..." He picked up a clipboard – one of a number that had been distributed to the passengers by Lieutenant House, briefing them on the enemy, showing maps, figures, names, and everything else they'd need by way of a primer. "We're here in Puerto Cabello and moving west. The ZLF is based in Zulia, and is trying to push east. He sighed. "Funny how we didn't get involved until the Orinoco Belt started being threatened."

Hung shrugged. "Got regrets in joining Jake?"

"Do you?"

"I want to keep my family fed. As long as that happens…"

He didn't continue after that. Hung was far more personable than Challow had become since boot, but their reasons for joining were the same – supporting their families, and any doubts had to be pushed to the wayside. It was the same in many other countries – join the military, get paid, support your family so they could actually stay alive. For a moment, he wondered what would have happened if there wasn't a war going on. What they might have done if the brass didn't need meat for the grinder. Not that they'd ever expressed it like that but-

_But nothing._

Jake went back to looking at the briefing, looking over the ZLF's troop movements, equipment, tactics, and lists of casualties. They were the enemy. Rebels. Insurgents. He was here to fight, here to kill, hopefully not to die. It was a challenge, a chance to seize the opportunity to live, fight, and serve. And he could damn well make sure he passed it. Fight for something. Live for something.

The truck turned and Jake looked back at the city. More grime. More poverty. Like home, but a thousand times worse. Bathed in the orange light of a setting sun.

He just hoped that by the time it was over, maybe a difference could be made on that front as well.

* * *

><p>It was night by the time they arrived at Camp Bianco.<p>

Jake groggily peered through the gloom as the convoy rolled up towards the entrance. Barbed wire and trenches surrounded it. Through the perimeter were automated turrets, designed to shoot at anything larger than a human that didn't send a handshake signal. Towers with searchlights towered above all of that also, one of them casting a light over the convoy as it came to a halt. Up ahead, he could see one of the base staff talking to the driver of the lead vehicle.

"Ugh."

Jake smirked as Challow came to, rubbing his eyes as the searchlight shone over them.

"What time is it?" Challow asked.

"Beddy byes," Nieto said.

"You're not my mum."

"But you miss her, don't you?"

"Screw you."

More bickering. Jake wanted to join in, but a day of travel, and uncomfortable travel at that, had rendered him exhausted. Knobbly roads, desert, the signs of burnt out wrecks and villages. He'd entered a warzone. Even if the insurgents were based further west, it was clear that this hadn't always been the case. That war had left its scars, and those scars would be remaining for a long time.

The searchlight moved off them and the trucks rumbled forward. And to his relief, the auto-turrets didn't level the trucks or marines with armour-piercing rounds, so there was that to be grateful for.

He yawned, rubbing his eyes as his truck entered the base proper, revealing an assortment of tents, portaloos, and a few pre-fabricated buildings. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Ghost yawning as well. She hadn't said a word the entire trip, but apparently being anti-social didn't mean one never opened their mouth at all.

"Need…sleep…"

And Hung yawned as well. It was reassuring in a way – yawning was contagious, especially when he and Tom had shared their room. But as the oldest member of the fireteam, Hung had a way of acting as a benchmark – speed, strength, yearning for home.

"Alright, everybody off."

Home, as in, back in Boston in Jake's case. Not Camp Bianco, a base on the frontline of another country's civil war that he'd be spending the better part of a year in, provided that the war wasn't resolved during that time. And after everything he'd seen, every vehicle, every village, every local who the trucks had passed by, staring at them with the blank stare that Jake had seen back home as well…he wasn't counting on that happening.

"Move it Sully!"

And he did, not wanting to feel Barrett's boot up his posterior. So he followed the rest of the FORECON members out of the truck, into an assembly yard.

"Atten-shun!"

And he did that too, just like at the docks. He was weary, sleepy, and a day's worth of uncomfortable seating had made his buttocks ache even without a kick from the sergeant.

"At ease."

Jake yawned again, squinting through the gloom. Up ahead he could see Redwood – the man was like a gorilla, all muscle and loud. Not that gorillas existed outside zoos anymore, but whatever.

"Major Durdan welcomes you to Camp Bianco," Redwood said, his voice cutting through the night air just like the night air was cutting through Jake's body. "Tomorrow, we'll be meeting him, at oh-nine-thirty hours. And since I want us bright eyed and busy tailed, your orders right now are to get some rest, get some grub at oh-eight-thirty, and try not to embarrass me."

Nieto sniggered, covered by the scattered laughter that echoed throughout the marines. "Bed. Rest. My kind of guy."

Jake silently agreed.

"So, marching orders. First platoon, block Q-one. Second platoon, C-two."

_Come on, come on, _Jake thought as each platoon received designated accommodation. _Get on with it._

"Fourth platoon, block S-five."

_Finally._

He didn't bother listening to the rest of the assignments. He knew that he was in block S, fifth building, hopefully pre-fabricated. Getting to that building was all he cared about.

"Dismissed."

So all that mattered was to follow Lieutenant House down through the rows of man-made structures. More searchlights filled the night air. Out in the gloom he could see an airfield, its aircraft ranging from medivacs to a C-21 Dragon assault ship. He could hear trucks, probably the ones that had taken them to the base, roll away to the vehicle depot. He yawned again.

"Stop it…" Hung yawned in return. "You're…ma…making me…" He yawned again.

Jake kept walking. His feet ached. His rucksack was cutting into his back. So when he saw that it was a tent that awaited fourth platoon, even as Challow complained, he couldn't bring himself to care. He followed House's lead. He reached the first stretcher bed he could find. He tucked his rucksack under it. And like every other marine in the platoon, began the process of flopping down onto it.

There was no "lights out" order, as there were no lights to turn on or off. Which suited Jake just fine.

Tomorrow, he'd be briefed and his own personal war would begin.

But that was tomorrow. Today was still Tuesday, the ninth of February. And for the rest of today, and as long as he could of tomorrow morning, he just wanted to sleep.

As sleep's silent slumber embraced him, it was a wish that was quickly granted.


	4. Pink

**.**

**Avatar: Rainbow**

**Chapter 4: Pink**

**February 20, 2145**

**Camp Bianco,**

**Yaracuy**

Within the tent reserved for personal messages, Jake looked at the computer screen. And frowned.

**NO CONNECTION**

And swore under his breath.

"No connection." The words hovered there on the screen, mocking him. They'd mocked him on the _Voyager_. And they were mocking him here now.

**LEAVE MESSAGE?**

Jake sat in his chair, a warm equatorial breeze blowing through the tent. Like _Voyager_, Camp Bianco made allowance for messages. Unlike the ship, they were far more stingy on time and comfort.

**LEAVE MESSAGE?**

With a grunt, Jake hit "enter." An image of Tom's dorm appeared. Unchanged from how it had been on the ship. Like he'd done on the ship, he ran a hand through his hair. Unlike on the ship, there was much less hair on it. Part of getting used to Camp Bianco was that hair was kept short, shirts tucked in, and you had to wipe your hands after every meal. That, and it reduced the chance of lice.

"So, let's see," Jake began. I'm in Camp Bianco. It's in Yaracuy. Check a map if you want more details."

He sighed, rubbing his eyes. He hadn't slept well last night, or any other night for that matter. The tent that was block S-5 was every bit as rudimentary in regards to comfort as its designation suggested. It was winter, but felt as warm as any summer. In other words, unbearable.

"Not much has been happening," he continued. "We've been acclimatizing mainly. Desert runs, drinking water." He blinked his eyes, hoping that they'd stop stinging. "Sunburn…take it from me Tom, it's no great loss that we never got to go to the beach, that school trip notwithstanding. I mean, yeah, there's sunscreen, but even when it's used with sunglasses, it only gets you so far."

Jake rubbed his arms. They were bright and pink. Like the rest of his skin. But he'd had today's shower (a three minute rinse as per water rationing), and wouldn't get any more relief to fight the burning feeling he had.

"The ozone layer's sketchy like that."

He supposed he shouldn't complain too much. Ozone depletion was more an issue in the polar regions. Russia and Canada had suffered particularly heavily, as entire crop harvests were wiped out due to unfiltered UV light. A warmer world had made polar regions more suited for agriculture at least but-

"Anyway, haven't seen the enemy yet," Jake continued, interrupting his own thoughts. "The ZLF…" He sighed. "Well, the ZLF are staying put in Zulia, in the country's west. That's their base by the way. The Zulian Liberation Front. And, well, we're here to stop them. Whole country's split between east and west. They're fighting for independence, but they're terrorists."

Terrorists. Rebels. Insurgents. The terms alternated whenever the ZLF were described. But they were bad people, Jake knew. He'd been told as much.

"Anyway, time's nearly up," he said. "I…miss you, bro. No doubt you're making friends with all the eggheads at college, but spare a thought for the jarhead too." He smiled for a moment – the joke was small, but it felt like the only one he'd heard in months. "Peace out."

The message ended and he hit "Enter."

And exited back into the sun.

* * *

><p><strong>February 22, 2145<strong>

It was Parris Island all over again.

No, it was worse, Jake reflected, as he and his fellow marines jogged across the wasteland that surrounded Camp Bianco. Parris Island had been harsh, but it was still on home soil. A climate that he was used to. Not in temperatures of 38 degrees Celsius. Not when he could barely see through the heat haze that surrounded him. Not as he needed water.

"I can't…do…this…"

Challow stumbled, but Jake kept on running. His lungs were on fire, his backpack's straps digging into him.

"And…I thought…this was…a jungle country."

Jake had thought so too. But truths from centuries ago didn't count for much in the present day. Not as deforestation and desertification took their toll.

"Can't…can't…"

And Challow fell. And the line of soldiers that was fourth platoon, 1st Force Recon, came to a halt. All but Staff Sergeant Barrett.

"Get up Challow."

"I…I can't."

"I…what?"

"Ca…can't."

"That word isn't in my vocabulary Marine. Now get up."

"I-"

"Up!"

Slowly, Challow got on his hands and legs. Shakily, he began trying to get up. Right up until Barrett put his boot on Challow's back and sent him face first into the dirt.

Jake winced.

"You think this is bad?" he asked. "You think the ZLF is going to give you time for sunscreen? You think they'll care if you're thirsty?" He squatted down in the dirt, beside Challow. "Well? Do you?"

"No Sir."

"What was that?"

"No…Sarge."

"Good." Barrett got back up. "Lieutenant House may enjoy the air conditioning, wine, and caviar that Camp Bianco has to offer, but we have to work for a living. And if you think any of you think you can work without getting acclimatized, then consider yourself out of a job." He looked around the group. "Anyone looking for new work?"

No-one answered.

"Good." He squatted back down at Challow.

"Now get the fuck up."

And Jake winced again. Not just because of Challow's condition. Not because of the words themselves. But because of how they were delivered. The venom. The contempt.

It was how Captain Redwood had described the ZLF.

How one talked about something to make others hate it as much as you did.

Or some_one_.

* * *

><p><strong>February 23, 2145<strong>

Today wasn't much better.

"Drink up you sad sacks."

Jake did drink, the plastic bottle at his lips depositing the colourless, tasteless liquid substance that was water. Or H2O as Tom would have called it, if he wasn't joking that the correct term was di-hydrogen monoxide. But right now, Jake didn't care what his brother might have called the water. Because right now, all that mattered was that it was keeping him from passing out.

"Now show me."

The marine held up their bottles to Barrett. He nodded as he walked along the wasteland soil.

"Good," he said. "The heat's going to make you want more water. You're going to lose salt too, so no skipping meals."

"Meals," Jake murmured. "Like I need an excuse to skip meals."

Actually, excuses weren't hard to come by, he reflected. Algae lost its flavour after awhile. As in, within a few years. And at nearly nineteen years of age, Jake had had enough.

"Now move it!"

Clutching his rifle, jogging along the sands, he'd reflected that he'd had enough of acclimatization exercises also.

* * *

><p><strong>February 24, 2145<strong>

Target practice was a bit different from Parris Island.

On Parris Island, he'd been using an M16, a weapon so hopelessly out of date that he doubted that even the ZLF would resort to using it. On Parris Island, he'd trained in Autumn. On Parris Island, he wasn't dying of thirst and sweating like a pig.

_I think I had bacon once._

Jake licked his lips. He couldn't remember. He might have got to eat some meat once, but a lack of fertile land on Earth coupled with most of what left being used to grow staple crops such as wheat had made livestock a necessity that the average Boston boy could only dream of.

"Fire!"

But enough about bacon he thought. He was target shooting. Differences including that for starters, he was using a nail gun. A DENT-type model that fired titanium nails capable of tearing through any non-armoured vehicle, let alone the human body. And his targets weren't stationary, but rather holograms that filled Camp Bianco's firing range.

"Fire!"

He fired. One of the nails hit a hologram, one of many generated by the projector that towered above the range, as tall as any of the watchtowers of the camp.

"Fire!"

He fired again. And another hologram disappeared. Licking his crapped lips, he wiped the sweat off his forehead, running his hand across the dry ground. No need to loosen the grip on his rifle.

"Fire!"

And at Barrett's instruction, he and the rest of the platoon fired. Fired again. And again. And again. And with each shot, another hologram that was meant to represent "one of those SOBs" disappeared.

It got easier to hit them, Jake realized. He was a good shot.

But seeing those human targets disappear…pulling the trigger never became as easy.

* * *

><p><strong>February 25, 2145<strong>

"One-two-three-four, United States Marine Corps."

_Shut up. Just shut up._

"My Corps!"

"My Corps!"

"Your Corps!"

"Your Corps!"

_Shut up shut up shut up!_

"Our Corps!"

"Our Corps!"

"That's it!"

Jake stumbled into the ground. It was 43 degrees Celsius. Barrett had them on one of those stupid runs, carrying stupid gear, carrying rifles that so far hadn't been used, and wearing fatigues that he was certain had reached one-hundred percent saturation point.

"Get up Sully."

"Fuck. You."

He lay down in the sand. Burning, blistering sand. Sand that he was quite content to lie down and sleep in. Perhaps even die in for all he cared.

"I said get up!"

Jake looked through the heat. Half a year ago, he would have found it in him to obey that command. If he hadn't, he'd have been booted out of basic, and sent back to the "worthless life of a maggot." But whatever punishment Barrett could give him, he knew that being sent back to said worthless life wasn't likely to happen.

"There sand in your ears Sully?" the staff sergeant whispered. "You think I'm bluffing?"

"Bluffing?" he rasped. "You haven't threatened me yet."

Sniggers rippled throughout the assembled jarhead. Even from Challow. Jake saw Barrett stand up. Look around. Wipe some sweat off his own head.

"Back to base," he said.

Jake remained in the sand.

He was too tired to follow an order right now. Even one he could get behind.

A kick to the ribs convinced him otherwise though.

* * *

><p><strong>February 26, 2145<strong>

"Heatstroke," Jake said. "I get a day off."

He looked at his fireteam. All were sweating, even in the air conditioned structure that was the infirmary. Apart from Challow, all looked in good spirits.

"So tell me," Jake said, taking another scoop of ice cream from the tray mounted on his bed. "What's Barrett got you doing now?"

"Urban combat simulation," Challow murmured. "A.k.a., more bullshit."

"Ah, but it was fun, no?" Nieto asked. "Especially when the paintball hit you in the-"

"Fuck you."

Jake didn't smile. Challow could be an arse. But even so…it wasn't really what he said, but how he said it.

"Anyway," Hung said, casting a gaze at both of the marines. "The urban combat may pay off. We're on assignment next week. Town of Boraure. Lieutenant House wants you for the briefing tomorrow."

Jake ate another spoonful of ice cream. He held out the nearly depleted carton. "Want some?"

Challow swore and stormed out. Nieto followed him, smirking like a child who knew he could get away with anything.

"You think they're gonna be okay?" Jake asked.

"Fine," Ghost murmured. She walked across the metre of floor that separated one curtain from the other, taking a seat. She wiped some sweat from her forehead. "Just fine."

Hung laughed. "Kids," he said. "They'll get over it."

"Hope so," Jake said. He finished the last of the ice cream before putting it aside. "So how's the family?"

"Oh, good," Hung said, smiling as any other father would. "Nick is about to start school. He's looking forward to it."

"And how long will that last?" Jake said. "I mean, it's school."

"Ask yourself that in ten years my friend," Hung said. "Looking back, school will probably be the best years of your life."

Jake remained silent. The best years of his life. At seventeen, he had no idea what those years might be. School? The Corps? Retirement? Something else?

Of course, he reflected as he picked up the orange juice that had been provided for him, he had to live long enough to enter the reflection stage.

* * *

><p><strong>February 27, 2145<strong>

"At ease."

The assembled members of 4th platoon sat down in the chairs of the prefab building – the second best building Jake had been in since the hospital by virtue of its air conditioning, falling short due to the lack of ice-cream. And, he supposed, the hologram that was behind Lieutenant House that showed an overhead view of the unit's patrol zone.

"This is Boraure," the lieutenant said. "Fourth platoon has patrol duties for the next week. The ZLF's been active lately around the area, so we're there to prevent the hostiles from getting any ideas."

But maybe the hospital didn't have as great an advantage as he first thought, Jake reflected. House wouldn't be giving the jarheads any ice-cream, but he _was _giving them a mission. The reason why he'd joined up in the first place. The ZLF were the enemy, he reminded himself. He'd been told as such. And after a week of training in the desert, the ability to walk around and not run through heatwaves was sounding better all the time.

"VNM are also in the town, but they've been assigned to their own sections," House said. Red icons appeared on the topographic display, all towards the south and east. "FORECON, however, is being assigned patrol of the north and west, alongside other elements of the twenty-fifth."

"On the firing line," Ghost murmured. "Great."

Jake remained silent. VNM – Venezuelan National Militia. It was nice to see they were out and about, but Challow had a point – Boraure was well south of the camp, about a day's travel, give or take. It wasn't the most important town strategically, but as capital of the La Trinidad municipality, it did carry a level of importance that all sides of the conflict recognised.

"You'll be spread out by squad," House said, highlighting five blips on the map, each corresponding to one of the platoon's six squads. Captain Dupleix has operational command, but otherwise, follow normal protocols."

Jake nodded. Radio contact, sub-division, terms of engagement, he could get behind that. So he watched as House gave sit-reps on each of the areas, none of which seemed that distinguished from each other apart from their names. He watched as Barrett delivered clipboards to each of the platoon's sergeants. He watched as his squad leader, Sergeant Sajal, went over the data with Corporal Laurel.

"So how about it eh Some bloody action," he heard Challow say. He glanced over, his fellow marine in conversation with Nieto. "Be among your own people and all that?"

"That means what?" Nieto asked.

"Spanish language." He gave him a shove. "You gonna be our translator?"

"Perhaps, amigo. Pero vas a escuchar?"

"…you lost me."

"Get used to it Challow, you're already lost," Ghost murmured.

Jake let it play out. Sometimes it seemed like his unit was a hair's breadth away from tearing itself apart.

Funny, considering that in theory, that was what the ZLF intended to do.

* * *

><p><strong>March 1, 2145<strong>

**Boraure,**

**Yaracuy**

Brasher armour. It had been designed by the RDA for its operations on Pandora, used by personnel involved in patrol and/or quick strike operations. And it was the type of armour Jake was currently wearing.

It felt lighter than he'd expected. He'd trained in body armour before, but such advanced body armour was expensive, and the RDA had a bigger budget than every branch of the US armed forces combined. But he was here, in Boraure. On patrol. Walking down a street in formation, holding a rifle in his hands, letting the spring sun beat down on him. Burning him. Making his skin pink.

_Need water._

He took a sip from his hip flask. The last drops of water entered his throat.

"Shit."

"Told you to make it last," he heard Hung say. "But did you listen?"

"Lay off, amigo," he heard Nieto say. Looking at his fellow marine, Jake saw him repeat the motion. The water dribbled down his chin, landing on the dusty ground. He smirked. "Ah, that's the stuff."

"Don't make me shoot you," Jake said. He smiled too, but it was only making him thirstier.

"Relax," Nieto said. "We come to water soon, yes?"

Jake looked at Hung. He watched him get out a flexi, displaying a topographic map of the town. Like the display back at camp, he could see blips moving across it.

"There should be a town pump at the intersection between Carenzo and Maduro Streets," he said. "Sergeant Sejal briefed me."

"How kind of him," Jake heard Challow murmur.

"Kind, yes," Hung said, and Jake saw that he had no smile at all. "But it's an open area, so it's a potential ambush site. So you can get your bloody water and move on."

Jake blinked – he couldn't remember the last time Hung had sworn. In fact, he couldn't remember Hung swearing, period. If Challow had become the annoying kid brother, Hung was more the responsible father. And not just because of his age and rank.

Regardless, he kept walking. He could bear the heat and drear if it meant there was water for him at the end of it.

Casually, Jake looked around. The town was in even worse shape than Puerto Cabello. On the way here, the unit had seen the telltale signs of war – burnt out vehicles, even bodies. Unlike Cabello however, war had clearly come to Boraure itself. Buildings in ruins, streets blocked by rubble, and the people…that was what made him the most uneasy. At Cabello, they'd looked half-dead and emotionless. Here, they looked three-quarters dead, but far from emotionless. No-one had come up to him or anything like that as he'd walked through his patrol zone, but there was something…off, Jake thought. Maybe it was human instinct, maybe it was instinct derived from training, but the way they glanced at him, the way they lowered their voices (not that he could understand their words anyway), how mothers kept their children away from him…it was like he'd suddenly become part of an occupation force instead of a protectionary one.

"Nice place huh?"

He glanced at Ghost as she walked behind him – keeping in formation, but barely.

"I've seen worse," Jake murmured.

"Doubt it."

The glance became a stare. Ghost usually lived up to her nickname. By talking to him directly at all she'd become more talkative than in the entire time he'd known her.

"But then again, you're a Boston boy aren't you?"

"Yeah, so?" Jake asked. He had no desire to defend Boston – it was a shithole, and he knew it. "Where you from?"

He supposed the Red Sox had rubbed off on him in regards to town pride.

"Kasur," she answered.

Kasur. Jake didn't know the name, but he was willing to guess that it wasn't any US town. Maybe Indian? Certainly Ghost looked the part, with brown skin, chocolate brown eyes, and black hair that she kept in a bun. The only thing not exotic about her at all was the way she talked – English, plain and simple. It was part of the effects of the global mag-lev system, how every country on Earth had, to various extents, become multi-cultural. One could live in the states, work in Mexico, and come back home for dinner.

And that was the thing about Ghost. She was plain. Or had been.

"Want some?" she asked.

"What?" Jake blinked out of his daydream.

"Water," she said, holding out a flask. "Got some left over."

"Nah, I'm…" He trailed off before taking a swig of the life-giving liquid, gulping it down. "Needed that."

"Yeah," she said, taking the flask back. "Shame about the people though. Bloody miracle that a pump's even still working after what we did."

Jake stopped walking for a second. "We?" he asked. "Who's we? Didn't we-"

"Dragon strike, used to remove the ZLF," Ghost said. She stopped walking as well. "What, didn't you know? The collateral damage is what the Corps did, not us."

A Dragon. Jake recalled the one he'd seen back in camp. He hadn't supposed it would have actually been used. Not on Boraure at least. Not when the chance of collateral damage was so high. Not when the C-21 was used for area-of-effect attacks, and most certainly _not _precision strikes.

"People hate us," Ghost said, as she kept walking. "Course the ZLF was here as well. But occupying a town is one thing. Bombarding it is another."

Jake felt thirsty again. Not just thirsty, it felt like his entire throat was on fire. He managed to keep walking, but as he looked around, at the people, at the buildings, everything seemed different.

_We did this._

Perhaps there was a good reason. If the ZLF had occupied Boraure, then it behoved its opposition to get it back ASAP.

_We did this._

Who'd given the order? Who the hell had been so desperate to get the town back that they were willing to practically destroy it?

_We did this._

The vehicles he'd seen out in the wasteland that surrounded the town. None of them could have taken on a Dragon. But they'd been destroyed all the same. Only now had he even considered what had destroyed them. Considered what had gone through the drivers' and passengers minds as 50mm sentry guns and guided rockets tore into them.

It made him ill. Fighting the unease, he quickened his pace as they approached the intersection, as they saw the pump – a pump in the centre of a small pond that was being used by the people. He watched as Sajal held up a hand, bringing the squad to a halt. Did he know what had happened, Jake wondered. And how had he not known?

_I should have known._

Ghost knew, he told himself. But he'd been so eager to fight for something, that he'd forgotten to ask what that something was for. True, defeating the ZLF was the objective of the peacekeeping operation, but what were _they _fighting for?

"Incoming!"

He heard the sound of vehicles. Something that he hadn't heard since he'd got off the trucks that bought him here. And then he saw them – modified jeeps and cars, all of them carrying soldiers. Many of them with mounted guns. All of them pointing at the marines.

Time seemed to slow. Through his helmet radio, Jake heard various cries of "take cover" and "open fire." Cries that were mixed with curses. The civilians began running. The soldiers (ZLF) began disembarking. He could see one of their gunners actually start to pull the trigger.

"Move it!"

Then Ghost dived into him. Both of them fell behind a piece of rubble. Which was just as well. Because that was when the bullets began to fly.

"Shit!"

He had no idea who exclaimed it. It could have been Ghost, but the ability to distinguish between voices was lost in the sound of gunfire.

"Jake!"

That probably was Ghost. But it didn't matter. He sat there, behind the rubble. Holding his rifle. Hands shaking.

"Jake, fire damnit!"

_Can't do this._

_Wanted to fight for something._

_Pull trigger._

"Jake!"

He heard more talk over the radio. Every platoon was coming under attack. This was an ambush.

"Jake!"

That wasn't Ghost's voice. It was Hung's. And the man came down beside cover with him.

"Jake, what's wrong?"

_Gonna die._

_Don't wanna die._

_Shoot._

_Gun._

"He's lost it," he heard another voice say. "Fucking greenie."

"Jake!" He looked at Hung. He tried to speak. But he could only open his mouth. Open and close it. Like a toy that was winding down.

He only stopped it when Hung stuck his flask in his throat. He coughed it out, spluttering.

"Jake!" Hung yelled. "You with me?"

"Yeah," he said, still coughing. "I…I'm with you."

"Good." Hung peaked out from the rubble, quickly ducking down. "Because Challow and Nieto are gone, the sergeant's dead, and last I checked, rifles are a bit ditty against gatling guns."

An explosion rocked the building on the opposite side of the street.

"And anti-tank guns."

Jake swallowed. Anti-tank. This wasn't going well.

_Not well? It's FUBAR._

The shaking began again. He heard a voice over the radio, that he recognised as belonging to Lieutenant House. It was an order to…

"Hold our ground?!" Ghost exclaimed. "He wants us to hold our ground?!"

Hung let out some more shots. And swung his rifle to the side down an alley way.

"Hold your fire!"

More marines. Three of them. Challow and Nieto weren't with them, but they were friendly faces all the same.

"Who's in charge?" Hung asked.

No-one answered.

"Fine," he said. "We've got our own unit here, and House has ordered us to hold the line. So fuck it, we'll hold the bloody line."

Jake nodded. Hold the line. A.k.a. stay behind cover. He could live with that.

"Sully," he said. "You go with Pope and Gold, see if you can find a way to outflank the firebase. Report only. No shooting unless I say so."

Jake swallowed.

"Do you understand?!"

And nodded.

"Good. Now move."

Jake followed Privates Gold and Pope. He barely knew the men, but they weren't much older than he was, and looked about as terrified as he was as well. He gripped his rifle.

"I'll take point."

_What?_

The back of his mind was screaming at him. Point. He was leading two men, he was barely holding together, and he was taking point.

_Shit._

Still, he walked down the alley way, the screams and shots of the Carenzo-Maduro intersection still ringing out.

"On me."

They moved onto the adjacent street. To their right was the way to Maduro, and Jake grimaced – Hung had a good plan. In theory.

"How's your stock?" he whispered.

"What?" Pope asked.

"Weapons," he said.

It wasn't much. Only a rifle each, plus grenades, and-

"Shit!"

The marines opened fire. Some other people opened fire. Jake fell to the ground as bullets rang against his body armour. He saw the bullets fall onto the ground. He saw Pope's body fall beside him as well.

ZLF. They'd tried an outflank tactic as well. Four of them were making their way down the street.

"You fuckers!"

He watched as Gold opened fire. The ZLF had numbers and surprise, but Gold had a SOLARIS IV assault rifle, a weapon that, among other things, had a magazine capacity of 150 rounds. Two of the ZLF members fell.

A wet sound occurred. And Gold fell down as well.

_Oh God._

Jake didn't believe in the man. Or the woman, as some people believed.

_Gonna die._

Gunfire hit the ground around him as he scrambled back into cover. Two ZLF. One marine. FORECON. Supposedly an equal fight, but right now, he felt dead already.

_Gonna die. Gonna die. Gonna-_

**Boom**

He fell to the ground as a shockwave hit him. A explosion on the street. Glancing out, he saw only one ZLF soldiers standing. In the sky, he could hear the sound of an aerial vehicle – small, by its size, but equipped with a heavy payload. He saw the ZLF soldier try to break for cover…

_No._

And he opened fire.

Bullets tore through the air. They also tore through the man's back. He spun in mid-air as he fell to the ground.

_Yes!_

Jake moved forward. More explosions and more sounds of aircraft were heard. Glancing up, he could see something in the sky – a UCAV. An aerial drone. They'd gone out of use years ago due to the proliferation of EMP technology amongst forces across the world just like the ZLF, but apparently the VNM were still using them. Using them to take out the ZLF's armour, according to the radio chatter.

And doing far less collateral damage.

And he stopped moving. Venezuela…it was fighting for its land, and using weapons that despite their ineffectiveness in the long run, were far better at minimizing collateral damage. And-

_I killed someone._

He looked over at the soldier. His back was moving up and down slowly and repeatedly. Blood was pooling out around him.

_I killed someone._

Jake's hands trembled. He dropped the rifle. A single shot rang out as it hit the ground.

_I'm a murderer._

He fell to his knees. He felt ill. His uniform smelt of something.

_Blood._

He coughed. Retched. Water came spilling out of his mouth. As surely as blood came out of the mouth of the soldier. The man who was pointing a pistol at him, his own arm trembling.

_Not a man._

The soldier was younger than he was. Sixteen at the most. He looked exactly like every person he'd seen in this town and in Carabello. The only difference was they were trying to kill each other.

_I'm only nineteen._

The boy looked at him. He whispered something.

"La libertard…"

And Jake retched again. He met the boy's gaze. The boy with a pistol. The boy who could pull the trigger, and end the life of his enemy.

"Jake!"

Jake's vision flashed. Faded. Went black and white. The trembling increased.

"Jake!"

He could hear Hung. He could hear the beating of his heart. The rush of blood in his ears. His hyper-ventilation.

What he never heard was the shot. Because it never came.

Before he lost consciousness, he saw the boy's body on the street. Face down. No longer breathing.

He'd never fired.

* * *

><p><strong>March 4, 2145<strong>

**Camp Bianco,**

**Yaracuy**

"You hanging in there Jake?"

"Yeah, fine…fine."

"You sure?"

"I said I'm fine! What, don't you believe me?! No-one believes me! I…"

Jake stopped yelling. The armoury of Camp Bianco was one of the few structures that was made out of concrete, a means of protection against enemy attacks, and also minimizing damage to the camp itself in the event of a internal detonation. And because of this, his voice echoed. A lot.

"Fine," he whispered, unloading the clip from his rifle and placing both into the auto-loader. "I'm fine."

It was a lie, and he could tell that Hung knew it. Three days had passed since Boraure – one day of town security until the Venezuelan Army arrived to take over assigned patrol duties, then two days travel back to camp, arriving earlier in the day. Since that time, he'd had trouble sleeping, always waking up in a sweat. Feelings of nausea were near constant. Hyper-ventilation, and just hearing the trucks start up a few days ago was enough to have given him a near heart attack. And right now, for reasons he couldn't explain, he'd been an arsehole to Hung. To his friend.

"Really, I'm fine," he whispered, watching the loader carry the weapon and ammo into the respective overhead slots. "It's just shellshock, y'know?" He smiled. "Nothing to worry about."

"Yeah," Hung said. He patted him on the shoulder, "You'll get over it."

Jake paused for a moment – the way Hung said it, it was as if he wasn't being serious. But it didn't matter he told himself as he un-holstered his pistol, going through the same motions as he'd done so with the rifle. He'd be fine. All he needed was to holster his weapons, and get a shower. Oh, and change clothes. Because the clothes he was wearing, there was something off about them. It was as if they smelt of blood.

"So Hung," he said, turning to his friend while trying to ignore the sweat, and the blood, and the sudden ache in his chest, and a number of other little things that he guessed came from lack of sleep. "You've been with FORECON for awhile. You ever seen anything like that? I mean, you were in Nigeria, right?"

Hung didn't answer. He wasn't even looking at Jake. He was instead looking at his pistol. Running a hand over it.

"Hung?"

"Funny, isn't it?" the corporal murmured. "Rifles, rocket launchers, grenades…you don't hear much about pistols being used in combat." He glanced up at Jake. "Weapons of last resort, really. Close quarters. In the previous century it was once said that war would become so mechanized, so computer-controlled that the need for soldiers would disappear entirely."

"Yeah, well…" Jake tried to smile, hoping Hung would shut up so he could get some air. Sweet, succulent air, something to wash the nausea away. "They'll always need men like us."

"Oh yes," Hung said. "Men like us." He laughed. "Men like us fight. Because we fight, there'll always be more men like us. And women too, I suppose."

"Hung, you going somewhere?"

"Pistols do the most damage in the civilian sector. Easy to carry, easy to conceal, easy to handle. They're not much use on the battlefield – even now, with so much high-tech gear being made moot by EMP technology, there's still a focus on ranged combat. City fights like Boraure? The exception. For now. But it takes a shot….just one shot…"

"Hung…" Jake swallowed. He felt ill. He felt like he had a fever coming on. He felt like his heart was trying to crawl through his ribs like something out of a horror movie.

Hung looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot. He looked…tired, Jake supposed. Very, very tired. And depressed. Except for the moment when he smiled. Like a father would to a child after the child had done something amusing that a parent had to indulge in until they were old enough to understand otherwise.

"Goodbye Jake."

And then Corporal Trin Tan Hung, fireteam leader, husband and father, twenty-eight years old, proceeded to blow his brains out.

* * *

><p><strong>March 5, 2145<strong>

Jake's skin was pink.

It was sunset, and while he could swear it was his imagination, the days seemed to be getting shorter. It was early spring, but already felt like summer. But still, the sun was setting. A warm breeze was blowing. Somewhere on the base, he could hear the cracks of rifle fire. Wincing every time he heard them.

"You okay?"

He ignored the voice and closed his eyes.

_Crack._

He winced. He felt another tightness in his chest.

_Crack._

Sweat began to build up on his body. He shivered as it started to evaporate in the breeze.

_Crack._

"Jake?"

He kept his eyes closed, and listened as the visitor sat down beside him. To watch over this happy bit of wasteland that three countries were fighting over, and an aspiring fourth.

"Come on Jake."

"Fuck off," he whispered. "Just fuck off Ghost."

"I have a name you know."

"I don't care. I've had my psych eval. First of many thanks to that fuckwit Hung."

_Crack._

He gripped his right hand. It was all he could do to make it stop trembling. He opened his eyes, squinting in the evening light.

He glanced at Ghost.

"Is this where you offer me a smoke?" he asked.

"I don't smoke."

"Beer?"

"I don't drink."

Jake snorted, mucus mixing in with the tears that had been streaming down his face. Like a waterfall that he hadn't even been aware was flowing.

"Why'd he do it?"

Ghost sighed.

"No, seriously, why," he repeated. He clutched both his fists. "I mean, popping yourself off? I can get behind it. Grow up in Boston for the first eighteen years of your life and you see all kinds of shit, and that includes doing everything from drugs to throwing yourself in front of mag-levs. But…" He spat. "Christ. He survived Nigeria. He had a wife. A son. I mean, how do you do that? What kind of person decides to say 'screw it' to their own family?"

"You've got a brother Jake," Ghost sighed. "You tell me."

"Tom…" He sighed. "I don't know if I can even call him family anymore, I haven't heard from him since Parris Island." He looked at Ghost. "What about your family?"

She stared at him.

"I mean, obviously you're Indian. I'm guessing you immigrated. Or maybe you were born stateside. I mean, you actually speak English so-"

"You don't know anything about me do you?"

Jake opened his mouth, then closed it. His sweat was beginning to stop and his chest was beginning to loosen up. Ghost was right. He didn't know anything about her bar her name, and he'd only found that out through Nieto. And…he began to laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"Oh, this," he said, still laughing, half expecting the Grim Reaper to appear in front of him and yell "someone's taking the piss!" "Hung dies, and you become Little Miss Chatterbox. Wonder how that works?"

"And how does it?"

Jake didn't answer. His smile faded, and all thoughts of Death went back into the corner of his mind that was reserved for memories. And nightmares. And everything else he'd experienced since Boraure.

"Talk to me," he whispered.

"I thought you preferred me not to."

"Just…talk to me," Jake said, rubbing his eyes. "Anything. Anything that doesn't involve some desk jockey telling me I'll fucking get over it."

"Fine," Ghost sighed. "I'll talk."

She paced around, stretching her arms. Jake remained seated, his eyes downwards. Noticing how longer her shadow was in the evening light.

"First of all, I'm not Indian, I'm Pakistani," she said. "Secondly, I didn't immigrate. I was born in Kasur."

"Huh," Jake said, recalling the name. "So, what? You learn English sometime later or something?"

"No. I can't even speak Urdu. Because when your parents are killed less then twenty-four hours after you're born, and you're sent to another country as part of a refugee program, you don't tend to pick up much of your native language."

Jake stared at her.

"Oh yes," Ghost said, sitting down beside him. "Kasur had the unlucky distinction of being the capital of Kasur District, and near the border with India. So when those two countries decide that it's time for another war as to who owns what amount of water, well, things get messy. Bombs. Soldiers. Civilians dying. The Indus Water Treaty went the way of most of the species on this planet. Mankind's stupidity didn't."

"Women can be stupid too," Jake murmured.

"Of course they can," Ghost said. "And, well, I was saved. Francine was the name of the aid worker who rescued me. She didn't live long after that thanks to succumbing to twenty-one twenty-five's branch of malaria, but the powers that be gave me the name." She looked at Jake. "Kwalu's my surname. My father's name was Jawaharlal Kwalu. My mother's was Bina Kwalu. But they didn't live long enough to name me themselves."

Jake swallowed. On the firing range, the cracks had stopped. His throat had become dry, and it was becoming even drier as Gh…no, _Francine_…sat down beside him.

"This isn't any different you know," Francine said. "You know that right?"

Jake remained silent.

"Zulia's got some of the last rainforest on Earth, and is a concentration of indigenous groups who want it kept that way. The Wayuu, the Moliton…they're fighting for freedom. Venezuela doesn't want it, and as soon as they pressed east far enough to threaten the Orincino Oil Belt, you can bet the US and Brazil started to not want it either."

"But…" Jake found himself struggling to find words. "They…they killed people."

"No shit." Francine laughed. "Course they killed people. Tortured them too. It's what makes this bearable for me Jake. Because it reminds me that human beings are willing to kill each other regardless of geography, history, or ethnicity. Heck, if you believe the rumours about Pandora, it turns out we're finding new ways to kill aliens as well."

Pandora. Jake remembered the moon. He remembered Midori, and how she'd intended on going to Mars. He'd called her a coward. Accused her of only wanting the paycheck.

He'd felt guilty then. And he felt even more guilty now.

"Anyway," Francine said. Jake looked at her and saw her wipe something from her eye. "Scuttlebutt is we'll be moving into Zulia proper. Jungle fighting, or we use dozers to tear it down." She got up. "Nice talking to you."

"It was, actually," Jake murmured.

Francine remained silent. Seemed to hesitate. Then gingerly patted him on the shoulder. Jake felt another shiver run down his spine. She was only a year older than him. But it made her feel like she was his mother. And she'd died horribly just as his father had.

"Yeah," Francine said. "And…call me Fran, will you? I don't mind Ghost, but I think that's a bit clichéd, don't you?"

Jake stared at her. Then smiled. Then laughed. For one, glorious, ever so fleeting moment he could forget he was sitting in a wasteland. That he'd nearly been killed. That he'd seen people die, including through means of suicide. Forget about how everything he'd seen refused to leave his mind, and not go away. For a moment, have some genuine, un-convoluted friendship.

But only for a moment.

* * *

><p>"Hey Jake."<p>

Jake watched the message from Tom play out. It was evening, and only from a desire to keep to himself that he'd gone to check if there were any messages for him. He'd never expected a message to actually be there waiting for him.

"Sorry I couldn't get in touch until now. Things have been pretty hectic here. Xeno-linguistics, xeno-biology, link-bed training…" He rubbed his eyes. His hair was unkempt, his chin unshaven, black circles hung under his eyes. "Best of the best Jake. That's what the program wants."

Jake took notice of the room. It was dark, messy, and there were more textbooks than he'd read in his entire life sprawled across Tom's bed.

"Three years," Tom said, rubbing his eyes againin as he yawned. "Three years training, five years travel time, five year service on Pandora at minimum." He rested his head on his palm – Jake noticed how pale his skin looked. Noticed the stubble around his chin and cheeks. He seemed ready to fall asleep then and there.

"Anyway, keep sending messages," Tom said. "I…well, see ya."

And the message ended. Just like that. The screen went blank. And all Jake was given was a **RETURN MESSAGE? **option.

So he sat there. Rubbing his arms. Noticing how pink they were from all the sun. Rubbing his chin, and feeling his own stubble. Rubbing his eyes, feeling the need to sleep, and the need to stay awake so he could postpone his nightmares for as long as possible.

**RETURN MESSAGE? **the computer asked.

Jake slowly raised his right hand to the keyboard. It never made it as it started shaking. It remained in place as he grabbed the wrist with his left, forcing his right hand into a fist. Tucking both into his chest.

**RETURN MESSAGE?**

And Jake chuckled. He felt his jaw move up and down. Like the cackling of the Grim Reaper, approaching his own death.

Return message. He had so much to say. That acclimatizing to the desert heat had been hell. That shooting at holograms had been far more difficult than it should have been. That he was tempted to enter the infirmary again just for the chance for more ice-cream, rather than eat the same algae he'd been forced to subsist off for most of his life. That he'd experienced his first firefight. That he'd killed. That he'd seen one of his squad members, and friends, blow his own brains out. That he felt ill. That loud noises startled him, that his chest would feel tight and his heart-rate pick up without warning. That every time he closed his eyes he could see Hung's face staring back at him, and the ZLF member he had killed. Over and over. Dying every time.

**RETURN MESSAGE?**

Jake hit the escape key, got up and left. Fighting the waves of nausea, feeling a sweat coming on despite the evening breeze.

He had nothing to say.

* * *

><p><em>AN_

_This was one of the hardest chapters to write (though not _the _hardest...ugh). Admittedly, 7000-plus words is a bit long for a chapter IMO, but it's also the case on the amount of stuff I had to cover. Under normal circumstances I'd have split this up into two chapters, but given the nature of the challenge I set myself, had to keep it all in the one chapter. _

_Minor note, the scene with Fran and Jake was originally meant for a separate character, a liason from the Brazilian Army. As in, someone to take on the 'mentor role.' I'd actually written him into ch. 3. When it came to writing this chapter however, it felt wrong. First, it's a contrivance in that a high-ranking officer from a different force entirely would be spending time with a grunt. Second, I felt I was spreading out the characters too thinly (and to be honest, after going through this story more times than I can count, I probably didn't do as good a job as I should have with the secondary characters. I reasoned that Nieto was the one to provide the 'language exposition,' and it would be a better opportunity to flesh out Fran's character. So, ended up changing it. And rewriting both sections of the previous chapter, and the ending of this one._

_Oh, and I had a member of the writing group I'm part of ask why "pink" is associated with sunburn. Afraid I'm one of those unlucky sods who burns really easily. :(_


	5. Red

**.**

**Avatar: Rainbow**

**Chapter 5: Red**

**April 2, 2145**

**Camp Bianco,**

**Yaracuy**

Jake yawned as he made his way to the waiting Samson. It had been an early rise, and the humid spring air wasn't making things any easier. But still, the entirety of 1st Force Recon had been ordered to make their way to the waiting craft, while the other marines were making their way to waiting trucks. Something was up. And he didn't think it was an April Fool's joke that had been postponed by a day.

"Move it!" Barrett barked.

Jake ignored him – he was going to walk with his fireteam into the waiting craft, thank you very much. He dumped his rucksack into the craft's transport section and followed through. Already it was a tight fit. And the presence of an M60 machine gun mounted on each door wasn't helping.

_Machine guns, _Jake reflected. _They've already deployed machine guns._

Challow was the last one to join the squad. The Samson could carry 5-10 people in its transport section, along with a pilot and co-pilot. So that amounted to the nine people that made up second squad of fourth platoon. Hung had never got a replacement. But Challow had somehow obtained his rank, and was now leading the four man fireteam that Jake was part of.

"Alright," Sajal said, laying out a map of Venezuela's northwest on the cabin floor. "Right now we're on the first day of Operation Lear. The Brazilian Army is pushing up from the south, while the marines are heading west, with the Venezuelan Army supporting elements of both. We're going to roll all the way into Zulia, and not stop until Maracaibo."

"Maracaibo?" Jake heard Nieto ask, his voice nearly lost in the sound of the Samson's turbines.

"Zulia's capital," Jake murmured.

He looked at Fran, who looked as tired as he felt. Her eyes were focused entirely on the map, the eyes themselves blank.

"FORECON has been assigned to take out emplacements along the northern coast," Sajal continued, tracing a finger across the map. "Our operation orders are to take out any targets identified before linking up in Zulia with the MEU. Intelligence indicates that the rebels have a light presence in the state, but it's heavy enough to be a hassle for any advancing units." He grimaced. "Flank duty, in other words."

The turbines got louder. And Jake's stomach felt emptier. Not just from the lack of any breakfast, the wonders of seasoned algae notwithstanding.

"This is our knockout," Sajal said. "In one month's time we'll be at Maracaibo. In one month's time we'll have the terrorists on the run. In one month-"

Jake let him trail off. Terrorists. Insurgents. The enemy. Not once did Sajal use the term "ZLF," let alone "Zulian Liberation Front." He'd heard it all. And what he'd seen…all he'd seen was a wasteland scattered with the ruins of war, being fought over issues of sovereignty and resources, and that he was being told to fight because…

The Samson lifted. Thinking back, he'd never been told why he was here. Oh, sure, to defeat the ZLF, but that was the goal, not the reason behind the goal. But he let Sajal keep talking. He even partook in the "ooh-rah."

_One month, _he told himself. _Just one month._

* * *

><p><strong>April 5, 2145<strong>

**Médanos de Coro **

**Falcón**

Médanos de Corowas the first battlefield.

It had been a national park once, a desert coastal habitat that featured salt marshes. Now the salt marshes were dead. The mangroves were dead. Many of the animals that had once roamed it were dead, and those that remained were scavengers. And plenty of human beings were dead. Because after a barrage of guided missiles from the Navy, much of the ZLF's armour and fortifications were aflame, their fire bellowing over the desert sand.

The Samson went to touch down. Gunfire greeted them from the sand. Underground fortifcations, hidden within the Médano sand dunes. Sajal ordered that fire be returned. So Jake did so.

He fired. He didn't know if he killed anyone. But the Samson nonetheless touched down. And he followed Challow into the fray.

_One month_, he told himself. _Just one month._

* * *

><p>He'd lost track of time when the order was given to pull out. The ZLF had a network of underground tunnels that covered the entire area. One month of attacks, counter-attacks, and airstrikes. Even guided missiles were useless, as no targets could be acquired. The sand masked the ZLF's heat signatures too well.<p>

He sat on the edge of the Samson's transport section and watched as the men and women returned of the unit returned. He watched a fox gnaw away at one of the bodies of "the enemy." There wasn't much blood. The flesh had been charred, and the fox wasn't going to get much out of it. But he let it eat.

"One month," he heard Challow say as he boarded the Samson. "One bloody month."

Jake looked up at him. "A month?" he whispered.

"Yes, a fucking month," he answered. "Why?"

"Nothing," Jake said as the Samson took off, en route to the hellicarrier _Mariches_, a Bolivarian Navy ship, for re-supply. "It's just…we were meant to be at the capital by now."

* * *

><p>Médanos Isthmus was better. The unit had carried out amphibious insertion to paint targets for naval bombardment. The ZLF had managed to pop off a few aircraft and even a few ships, and oceanic transport across the state's coast was at risk until the installations were taken out. It was meant to be easy.<p>

It was. Watching the handiwork wasn't.

"Note to self," Jake heard Fran whisper as the missiles began pouring down through the early morning sky. "Don't become a sniper."

Jake didn't answer. The camo would keep his body hidden in the sand…or so he hoped. The idea for refracting light and making a human invisible had been around for centuries, but it had come to nothing. Practical camouflage was still the best the USMC (or any military) could muster.

"Why?" Nieto whispered.

"Better to see war from the inside than the outside," she said. She glanced at Jake. "Don't you think?"

"Why?" he asked, mimicking Nieto. He thought of Médanos de Coro. Of Boraure. Of the Modulo Chititera plains in Apure, where tank battles between the ZLF and Brazilian Army were raging, the latter only winning due to air superiority. Of the battles in the foothills of the Andes in Portugusea, where the Marines and ZLF were playing a game of cat and mouse and using every weapon to either advance, or stymie said advance. Of the casualty lists that were coming in from everywhere.

"Simple," she said. "Look at war from the outside, you see the whole lot of it. See the whole lot of it, you see more of it. And the more you see…" Another blast ripped through the morning air. "You know what happens next."

Jake did. He was seeing it now, in the morning.

He saw it at night as well. In his dreams.

In his nightmares.

* * *

><p>Watching Agri-Complex Bonaire go up in flames didn't do Jake any favours.<p>

He and the other marines, along with some BNoV sailors, were watching the sight on a screen on the ship's mess. Retaliation for advances against the ZLF.

He didn't tell anyone about his conversation with Midori. He didn't tell them about the words she'd uttered – "I wonder what would happen if there was a shortage of algae, what the world's nations would do then." He didn't tell them how he felt – that on one hand, this was pure terrorism, or at least, an attack that was designed to affect the civilian populace rather than the military forces the ZLF was up against. That on the other, he was too tired to become indignant. Warfare against non-combatants was as old as war itself. Biological warfare, such as lobbing bodies of the diseased against fortress walls, stretched into antiquity. The 20th century had seen mechanized warfare and mass attacks against civilian populace centres. The 21st had lived and breathed on asymmetric warfare. And the 22nd…it was hard to say what the 22nd century would be categorized by. Maybe war itself. Of all kinds, and all flavours.

He remembered the M60s on the Samsons. They'd been in use for nearly two centuries. Even now, putting bullets into people was a very effective way of killing them.

So he remained silent. Got up. And retired to his assigned quarters.

He just wanted it to end.

* * *

><p>Sergeant Sejal informed them that they were moving into Zulia the next day.<p>

The Samsons stood ready. The unit stood ready. He listed as he gave a speech about FORECON having the best weapons, the best training, the best men, that the ZLF were giving ground in the southern states. That after two months, the war was nearing its end.

He didn't ask about the earlier one month figure. Nor did he raise an eyebrow when he heard that they'd be joined by a SecOps force – the RDA's paramilitary group. Apparently losing an agri-complex had triggered an immense loss in profits and investor confidence.

It was no problem. The RDA used the same weapons, the same armour, the same tactics as the USMC, and pretty much every other military in what was once called the first world. And for the first time in awhile, Jake smiled.

Midori's question had been answered.

No nation had done anything.

There was no need to.

* * *

><p>Lake Maracaibo had stopped being a lake long ago. As the land dried up, as rainfall patterns changed or disappeared entirely, bodies of water had become a vital commodity on Earth, and in the lake's case, it was a vital source, even if it required de-salinization. Fran had already told him of the Indus Water Treaty, and the lengths Pakistan and India were willing to go to save their own people, and kill members of another people if necessary. He hadn't found it too shocking back then and didn't now – not when on "the war channel" as he'd called the news, Egypt and its neighbours were already fighting over what was left of arable land and water supply in the wasteland that was once the Nile Basin. It was a reminder that even as the war was being fought in Venezuela, it was one war out of many.<p>

But there were still islands in Lake Maracaibo. Islands where the ZLF had set up emplacements. Emplacements that were good enough to employ point defence against remote missile strikes and even UCAVs, so it was a case of using APCs and IFVs to get the job done in close quarters.

They had told Jake to kill. So he killed.

When he threw a grenade into one of the dwellings the enemy had set up, he killed. When he stormed it with the rest of the squad, he killed. When one of the enemy attacked him with a knife, as basic combat techniques took over and he grabbed the man's knife and cut his throat with it, he killed.

There was more blood this time than Médanos Isthmus. Bullets and knives…they had a tendency to draw blood.

So he stumbled out of the dwelling. He listened to his helmet radio as reports came in from FORECON and SecOps that the last of the "hostiles" had been cleared up. He watched as SecOps Scorpion gunships began closing in, upon reports that the defence emplacements had been cleared.

"Lessons from Pandora," Fran said. "Aerial superiority from a fixed position."

Jake wondered how Pandora could teach those kinds of "lessons."

"Um, Jake?" Nieto said. "Your hands."

He looked at them. There was blood. Likely from the knife.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "There's been blood on them for awhile."

It was true.

He no longer worried about it.

* * *

><p>"Do you want to play?"<p>

Jake barely heard Nieto.

"Jake?"

He glanced at his fellow marine, sitting on the banks of one of the lake's islands. "What?"

"My Orca," he said. "I've finished all the games I downloaded onto it."

Jake took hold of the device. It was lighter than it looked. Handheld game consoles had been around for centuries, but it was only within the last fifty years that cartridges, discs, and other forms of physical media had been phased out entirely. He glanced at the screen, at all the games listed on it – swords, axes, dragons…RPGS, by the looks of them.

"That's some heavy duty gaming," he murmured.

"I like RPGs," Nieto murmured. "You get to be the good guy."

Jake winced – he had a headache coming on. The burning buildings, the smell of burnt flesh, and the strong breeze wasn't doing him any favours.

"Listen, you don't have to play or anything," he said. "God knows you probably have more than enough stuff on your mind to be worried about stats."

Jake glanced at him. "What makes you think I've got stuff on my mind?"

"Because I do," he said. "Because…" He swallowed. "Because I can't get it out of my head." He tapped his head with his finger. "It's like…things are trying to tear out of me, ya know? La pesadilla, all the time."

Jake didn't say anything. He looked at the first game – _Griffon Wing_, bearing the image of a mythological animal, or if it had ever existed, long since extinct. Dead. Like so many humans. Like everything that had once lived in Lake Maracaibo. Like so much of what had once lived on Earth.

"I'm thinking of joining SecOps you know."

Jake glanced at Nieto. "What?"

"SecOps – the RDA's paramilitary branch." He sighed, meeting Jake's gaze. Showing his bloodshot eyes, and the dark circles under them. "It's not uncommon for them to recruit from national militaries. Pay will be better. Chances of seeing combat are lower too." He moved over a bit. "They might have a place for you too Jake. After-"

"No."

The words were automatic, coming straight out of Jake's mouth as if he were a robot. 'No.' Semper fi. Loyalty. Platitudes that were racing through his mind.

"I'm fine," he said. He pocketed the Orca as he got to his feet. "Thanks for the games."

Nieto remained seated, staring out over the lake's sands. Silent. Jake had noticed that his English had become much better, but he spoke so little now that it was almost academic. Yet…

"Hey," Jake said. Nieto looked at him. "Do you know what 'la libertard' means?"

"Qué dijiste?"

"La libertard," Jake repeated. "A ZLF fighter said it in Boraure." He lowered his gaze. "Last words he said actually. I-"

"Freedom," Nieto whispered, raising his gaze to meet Jake's. "La libertard means 'freedom.'"

"Right," Jake murmured. "Freedom."

Freedom. To fight for freedom. Die for freedom. Live in freedom. To do so while doing nothing but follow orders.

He wondered what it even meant.

* * *

><p>"Damn Jake you look like hell."<p>

"Course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"Why would you? We're nearly at the end of the war Jake. Ready to kick the fuckers out."

Jake stopped walking and glanced at Challow. The person he'd once considered a "kid" back at Parris Island, now his superior in both rank and physique. The man whom he'd once called "Paul," was cleaning his rifle. And smiling while he was doing it, eyes twinkling behind his glasses.

_Can't remember the last time he smiled._

"We're moving in on the capital," Challow continued. "The ZLF knows they're finished, they're just too stupid to realize it."

"That's a contradiction," Jake murmured.

Challow glared at him. "What?"

"They know they're done for, but don't realize it. If they don't realize what they know, how can they even know it in the first place?"

The glare continued. "Semantics," Challow said. "Point is, the fuckers are done for."

"Right," Jake sighed. "Fuckers. How eloquent."

"We're marines Jake, eloquence isn't part of the job description."

"Then what is the job description?" Jake asked. He stood there, on the shore of a now non-existent lake. "What's the job description Challow? When we were on Parris Island, did you ever think we'd be functioning as killers?"

"Did you ever think that we wouldn't be?"

Jake stared at him. Challow stared back. Not in contempt, but in honest-to-God puzzlement.

"What do you think we're here for?" Challow asked. "We're killers, Jake. We were trained to be killers. We're paid to be killers. Part of the reason my family's alive is that I'm paid for what I do."

"How nice of you."

"Yes, very nice," Challow said. He cocked the rifle. "You think it's wrong that finally, we're in the field? That we're finally able to be what we trained to be?"

Jake opened his mouth…then closed it. He recalled how Challow had been so moody from the moment they left the states. On the transports. In the camp. He'd assumed that he'd been homesick or something. But now he saw the truth. The horrifying, crystal clear truth…

…he'd been waiting to get into the action. That was why he was happy. Why he'd excelled in the Crucible. Why he'd always been moody outside action. He was _living _for this.

"Whatever," Jake said, as much to Challow as to himself. "I'm off."

"What?" Challow said, following him. "You think you're any different?"

"I'm not like you."

"Oh really?" Challow sneered. "Then tell me Jake – how are the nightmares?"

Jake stopped walking. He felt his heart racing. Slowly he turned. "What?" he whispered.

"The nightmares," he said. "You've been having them since Yaracuy. Or at least since Hung decided to pop himself off." He took a step towards him. "What happened Jake? Sleeping better now?"

"I…" Jake spluttered. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Haven't you spent the last three months fighting? Killing? Funny that you're quite willing to go along with that now."

"That…I…"

"Did you stop caring?" Challow asked. "Is that what did it? If so, I'm not complaining. We need all the men we can get. Or at least, men who know how to get the job done and not burst into tears every time-"

Jake snapped. It happened instantly, on instinct. One moment Challow had been talking, and he'd been listening. The next he was swinging a punch at his former friend. No reason bar what instinct told him. That Challow had to stop talking. That he had to stop listening. That his mind had to stop _screaming_.

The punch never made contact. Challow sidestepped it and grabbed Jake's arm, holding it in a position that would easily let him break it if he wanted to.

"Pathetic," Challow whispered. "Absolutely pathetic."

And Jake could tell he really _did _want to. It was Parris Island all over again, only with the roles reversed.

"You're pathetic," Challow repeated. "Lying to yourself, lying to me…you think you're better than me? You think you're better than the rest of us?!"

"I'm not like you!"

"Liar!" he yelled. He leant in close. "Then why are you here Jake? Why sign up when you knew this was what you were going to do? Why not pop yourself off like Hung if your job makes you ill?"

"I…"

"Or…is it that it isn't a problem anymore?" He twisted Jake's arm further, causing him to cry out. "Maybe you're already at the truth Jake. And the last bits of your old self are crying foul."

"You know nothing about me!"

Challow shoved him to the ground, Jake spitting out sand after landing. "I know enough," he said. "I know the world will always need men like us. I know that denying that fact will get us killed. I know that your moralizing is bullshit, and no matter what you say, you're no different from me."

"You're wrong."

"How many Jake? How many have you killed already?"

Jake opened his mouth…then closed it.

"Lost count? Or did you never bother? Well, it doesn't matter." Challow squatted down beside him. Jake met his gaze. Challow's clear, icy gaze.

"We're all killers," the marine said. "Remember that when we move on the capital."

And Jake let him walk off. As he lay there. In the sand. Wanting to lie there until the world had changed. When the lake was an actual lake again. When things would be…different.

But he couldn't. And some things would never change.

Challow was right. He was a killer.

He would always be a killer.

* * *

><p><strong>July 19, 2145<strong>

**Gulf of Venezuela,**

**Zulia**

Jake knew what the date was now. Knew because timing was everything for this operation. July 19, 2145, 0300 hours, local time. Monday morning.

He clenched his rifle as the hovercraft made their way across the Gulf of Venezuela, coming at Maracaibo from the north. It was night, but anti-aircraft fire and flares lit the sky. Up in the sky were warplanes, pounding the ZLF from above. Every so often, one of those planes would be downed. Up so high, any EMP technology the ZLF could employ was ineffective. But surface-to-air missiles were another story.

That was what FORECON was here for. The Marines, Brazilian Army, and even elements of the RDA's paramilitary forces were laying siege to the city, striking out from the recently captured towns of Santa Rita in the east, and La Esendada in the south. But while the street fighting was raging, and the ZLF steadily giving ground, the attackers were being prevented from bringing their full airpower to bear. Many SAM sites had been stationed along the coast due to the ease of line of sight. So while it was giving the ZLF easy shots at the fighter jets, bombers, and even Samsons and Scorpions closer to the ground, it also made them a ripe target.

"All call-signs, this is Seasnake," came a voice over the radio. A voice that he recognised as belonging to Captain Dupleix, commanding from a naval ship further out to sea, safely out of range. "Mission launch. Repeat, mission launch."

"Roger that," said House, his voice being regulated to the frequency used by his platoon. "Enter sync."

Sync. Jake activated his helmet's HUD, displaying a topographic display of the area, along with dots that signified the presence of his fellow platoon members, and if necessary, the unit as a whole. Courtesy of transmitters attached to every marine's armour, beamed up to a satellite, then beamed back into his helmet software.

"Nice stuff, huh," Challow murmured. He glanced at Jake, his face hidden behind his helmet. "Y'know what I mean."

Nice stuff. Right, Jake reflected. Not only was he wearing a helmet that was some of the most advanced tech on the planet, but the RDA had been kind enough to provide _Centauri_-class armour. Servo assisted gear that would assist his strength and speed, but without any cost to stamina. Field tested on Pandora.

Pandora. Just the mention of it filled Jake's thoughts with Tom. What he was doing. Why he hadn't sent any messages. Why he himself hadn't tried to get in touch since Hung's death. And why such armour would even be needed on that moon. That the RDA was providing advanced military technology to the USMC and not the other way round was an irony that wasn't lost on him.

_Are you watching this Midori? _he wondered. _On Mars? You got any regrets?_

Gunfire and tracers filled the sky. Getting out of the Corps before this hell began. If Midori had any regrets, he couldn't imagine what they could be right now.

"Alright!" he heard Sejal shout. He strode to the front of the hovercraft. "Listen up! BDA's come back negative. Enemy strength's unknown. But this is still a by-the-book amphibious deployment. Get in, follow your HUD, and provided the techs haven't screwed up, they'll get us to the SAM sites."

Jake watched a plane fly overhead, its wings illuminated by a flare that had been shot up.

"Once we deal with the coastal sites, standing orders are to move deeper into the city. Set up positions, wait for any ZLF retaliation. We're going to engage them on our terms, let them come to us. This'll let our friends move deeper into the city on their own fronts."

The hovercraft stopped.

"Ooh-rah!"

"Ooh-rah!" everyone else shouted. Even Jake.

The ramp went down. They began to surge forward.

And that was when Sejal's head exploded.

* * *

><p>"Sniper!"<p>

Someone, at some point, had shouted that. Right after Sejal fell down into the hovercraft. Back when the marines had surged forward. Back when the ZLF had opened up.

And now his HUD was on the fritz. The topography was there, but the blips were out of whack. Moving everywhere.

"Move it!"

Moving. Like he himself was doing as he ran up the beach. As Challow moved him forward. Gunfire ripped through the air. Mortar rounds made puffs of sand fill the early morning air.

"I said move!"

The pair went down behind some cover. A small dugout, stabilized with wood.

"What the hell's happening?!"

"Jamming technology!" Challow yelled, tearing off his helmet. "The ZLF's scrambling the relay signal."

"We…shit."

"Yes, shit. The sergeant's dead, we've lost all coordination, and-"

A boom sounded further up the shore, towards the actual city. A boom that Jake had been trained to recognize, but had never actually heard on the battlefield yet.

"Tanks!" Challow exclaimed. "They've got fucking tanks!"

Jake peaked up towards the urban centre. Gunfire was rippling out. The ZLF had set up installations on the beach, but must have pulled back into the city, using the buildings as gun emplacements. So while the Marines had the beach to themselves, the beach itself was a killing zone. Even the dugout was sub-optimal – it had been designed to fend against attackers, not to give the attackers cover.

"Fucked up," Challow whispered. "It's all fucked up."

Jake glanced up the beach.

The SAMs were still there, close to the road that marked the boundary between the beach and city. – immobile, square-shaped installations, likely cobbled together, sending missile after missile up into the sky. All of them operated manually, and with dugouts protecting the crews. But what was meant to have been a light infantry assault had entered the realm of armoured warfare.

"All call-signs, this is Seasnake. We-"

Static filled Jake's earpiece and he tore it out. More jamming. And-"

"Shit!"

He saw Fran and Nieto skid across the sand towards them. Both of them had their helmets off. Both of their faces were hidden in the gloom.

"Where's Laurel?!" Challow yelled.

"Somewhere, anywhere, I don't know!" Nieto exclaimed. Another 'boom' sounded out. "Maldito! They have tanks?!"

Another 'boom' sounded.

"Yep," Fran said. "Tanks. And all we've got are AMPs."

AMPs. Amplified mobility platform, another gift from the RDA. Walkers that were four metres tall, manned by a single pilot, equipped with a GAU-90 that could tear through any infantry and most vehicles. The unit had been given some, and had been delivered on separate hovercrafts. And-

**Boom.**

And already one of them had burst into flames as a tank round hit it. A bonfire formed further along the beach.

"Okay Paul," Jake said. "What are your orders."

Challow stared at them. "What?"

"You're lance corporal. You're our fireteam leader. Our squad sergeant's dead, we can't communicate with anyone, so it's up to you."

"Up to me…" Challow murmured.

Jake closed his eyes as the gunfire and screams continued. He just…wanted it to end. If he got past this night, the nightmares would never end. If he died now, he was dead, and he wasn't aware of any rational reason to suggest that there was anything beyond that. Challow had been right when he'd talked to him earlier – the nightmares had stopped. But they were always at the edge of his waiting mind. And now, in the early morning, they stood poised to come back. To tear his mind apart. And take his soul as well.

_I want to go home._

Boston. It was hell. It was dirty. It was barren. But it was still home.

"Alright," Challow said, breaking him out of his daydream. "We're here for the SAMs. The ZLF wants to protect the SAMs. So we get them to protect it."

"What?"

"Grenades," Challow said. "Lob them, one at a time towards the nearest SAM. Get them to deal with the threat. Let them come to us."

"Um, grenades won't do much," Nieto said.

"No. But they'll be enough to draw the fuckers out."

Another "boom" sounded.

"Well, let's see," Fran said. "We have a tank to deal with at some point. I suppose starting off with the SAMs isn't too bad."

"Right," Challow said. And he smiled. "Let's do it."

Jake winced. It wasn't the words. It wasn't the plan. It was Challow's face. His eyes.

He was enjoying this. He was leading them.

Right now, that terrified him more than anything else.

* * *

><p>Challow's plan worked. The grenades were lobbed. The gunners screamed. Some ZLF soldiers moved through the gloom to provide support.<p>

"Fire!"

So Jake fired, because he was told to. He killed, because he was told to. For one fleeting instant, he was brought back to Boraure, because his mind willed it.

_Enough, _it seemed to say. _Enough!_

But he kept firing. The bodies fell into the sand as the soldiers broke from cover. Too far from the sea for water to cleanse it.

"Move!" Challow yelled. "Up the beach!"

Jake obeyed, his body dragging his mind along for the side. Gunfire rang out. Glancing back at the beach, gunfire came back and forth from both sides.

"Challow!"

It was another voice. Another group of marines, five in total, already on the street, huddling behind a burnt out car.

"Move!"

Challow gave the order. And Jake followed him. Gunfire rippled out towards them, some of it hitting his armour. But none of it getting through. And unscathed, all four of them arrived.

"Sergeant Torregrosa, fourth squad!" the woman shouted, her voice bearing a small trace of an Italian accent, but otherwise perfect English. "Report!"

"Lance Corporal Challow, second squad."

Jake looked at the marines Torregrosa had with her. He couldn't see their faces. But he could imagine them. Under the premise that they were like his own.

"Plan's changed," Torregrosa said, getting down to her knees, Jake and his fellow marines ordering likewise "Orders are to hit the SAMs, then bug out."

"We're not pressing in?!"

"Corporal, they've got a tank!"

"Yeah, but lose the SAMs, and we can-"

"Orders are orders."

Jake decided he liked Torregrosa. She was sane.

Then again, as he glanced out at the scene before him, he wasn't sure how even destroying the SAMs could pay off. The ZLF had the benefit of position and firepower. But for coordination…

"These are our orders," Torregrosa said. "Get rid of the SAMs, signal a retreat. Let our birds do the rest."

Another 'boom' sounded.

"Here," said the sergeant, handing Challow and Jake some mag-explosives. "Attach these to the SAMs – they're set for a ten second countdown, so don't hang around. We'll provide cover."

"Cover, great," Fran said. "Don't suppose we can alter who's covering whom."

"Not while I'm giving the orders, no."

Jake glanced at Nieto. Challow would have no problem following these orders, he reflected. Not when it would damage the enemy. But Nieto…he smiled. The type of smile a dying man gave his family in his last moments. The type of smile that showed the world that person was afraid of death, and therefore sane.

Nieto was sane. Even if Fran was keeping her head to the ground, he could live with at least one sane person on his side.

If he lived at all.

"Alright, move on three," Torregrosa said. She and her squad lined up at the car, one of them thankfully equipped with a LMG. "One…"

Jake gripped his rifle. Standard issue rifle, RDA supplied.

"Two…"

It weighed 11.4 kilos when unloaded, 16.31 when equipped with a magazine.

"Three!"

He began running. Across the sand. Towards the first SAM site.

Reflecting that right now, a full magazine counted for very little.

* * *

><p>Challow attached the mag-explosive. It was a simple procedure – all one had to do was press the mine-shaped device onto a metallic surface, and it would stick. By turning a handle, the explosive would be primed. After that, the fireteam had ten seconds to get out of the blast radius without getting shot at in the first place.<p>

"Come on Challow, move it!" Fran shouted. She pulled out a knife from one of the crew members.

Which would be difficult. Because killing the ZLF soldiers at the SAM was easy. Dealing with the gunfire coming their way was another matter.

"Challow!"

"Alright, it's armed!" he yelled. "Move!"

They'd already singled out a good cover spot. It was the dugout where they'd first taken cover. Jake, Nieto and Fran went first. Glancing back, Jake saw Challow pick up his rifle.

_Cover, _he reflected as he turned around and raised his rifle, ready to fire blindly into the dark. He needs-

**Boom.**

It happened. Challow had started to run. And then the ground exploded from under him, less than a second after the tank had fired another round. It happened. And one half of Paul Challow went flying towards Jake, while the other half went in the other direction.

_Oh my God._

Jake stood there, as if in a dream. Watching as Challow's torso landed right in front of him.

"Challow!"

He ran towards him, skidding down into the sand.

"God! Oh God!"

He clutched his hand before recoiling – Challow's body felt like it had gone through an oven. His lower torso was cauterized. His flesh signed. The armour melded with the flesh itself.

His eyes glassy, his glasses nowhere to be found.

"Shit."

Lance Corporal Paul Challow, twenty years old, born in the Challow homestead in Kansas, was dead.

The SAM exploded. Jake dived down into the sand as debris went flying everywhere. Not only did the SAM itself detonate, but its missile stockpiles did as well.

"Jake!"

One of his teammates was calling to him. Nieto, Fran, he couldn't be sure. His ears were ringing too much.

But he crawled towards them all the same. As fiery debris rained down. As if he were in Hell, and Heaven was sending the fire down for all his sins.

So he crawled. Back into the waiting arms of the Devil.

* * *

><p>Jake, Fran, and Nieto fired as Torregrosa and her squad (now four) ran towards them. The ZLF hadn't taken kindly to losing a SAM, and were at the point where they were pressing down the beach towards them. Content to no longer stay on the defensive.<p>

"Report!" she yelled.

"SAM's gone, man down," Fran said. "What else is new?"

"Corporal Toth is dead," one of the marines said. "That's what fucking else is new."

"You lost a man?" Nieto said.

"Do the math fuckwit," the sergeant snapped. "She looked at Jake. "What's your name?"

"Sully, Jacob. Private."

"Alright Sully Jacob, you're now a corporal and second in command of fourth squad." She patted him on the shoulder. "Congratulations."

Jake's lip trembled. He felt like he was drowning. "I…I don't…"

Torregrosa ignored him and she peered up over the dugout. "Communication's still shit. The ZLF's one SAM down, but intelligence suggested at least three."

"Yeah, well, intelligence suggested a lot of things," Fran murmured.

More 'booms' sounded. And 'whooshes.' Jake hated to assign such terms to the firing of the tank and the SAM's launching of their missiles, but that was the only way he could describe them. Boom. Whoosh. Boom. Whoosh.

_Boom. Boom. Boom._

He shook his head. Something was pounding. Within his own mind.

**Boom!**

The squad dived down.

"That wasn't a tank blast! That was…holy shit!"

Jake watched the show. Ships, out at sea, firing directly into the city. Destroying buildings. Sending the rubble carrying down onto the ZLF. Infantry. The tank. Any other piece of hardware they might have had.

_What if there were people there? _He wondered.

The firing continued.

_Are we capturing the city by destroying it?_

The firing still kept up.

_Are there civilians here? What were the terms of engagement?_

He'd never asked.

_Killers. Challow was right. Killers._

The firing stopped. From the ship. The SAMs. The marines. The ZLF.

"Alright," Torregrosa said. "Suit up."

"Suit up?" one of her men asked.

"Move to the centre, see if we can establish command and control. After that, we'll likely move into the city itself."

"But…the ZLF…"

"Are finished. They're flies. By the grace of the US of bloody A, we're the sledgehammer."

"Or murderers," Jake murmured.

No-one heard him. Or if they did, no-one reacted.

He thought of Yaracuy. Of that boy who had failed to fire. The boy whose last words had been "freedom."

He wondered what the ZLF would say to him now. Whether they believed in freedom, or were fighting because it was the only thing they could do now.

Following his new sergeant, he wondered if he was any different.

_Killers, _said the voice of Challow in his mind. _We're all killers._

He kept running.

* * *

><p>When the city fighting began, it was like a dream.<p>

Gunfire, shouts, screams. Crawling through the rubble the naval bombardment had created. The SAMs had been destroyed. FORECON had suffered heavy casualties. But with the removal of the SAMs, the air support had free reign. Already, drones were being brought in. Any heavy armour the ZLF had in Maracaibo was a sitting duck. All that was left to do was for FORECON to move in, establish a beachhead, and wait for the ZLF to either surrender or bleed themselves dry. Because not only had communications been re-established, but it had also been established that the plan was unchanged.

So the fighting continued. Street by bloody street. It was always the same. Blind firing from one corner to the next, moving in sync, hoping you wouldn't get shot in the process. The gunfire was constant, and came from everywhere. Every so often there was the 'whoosh' sound of an RPG, or crack of a sniper rifle. Street by bloody street.

Jake followed Torregrosa as they entered what had once been a café. Short, accurate shots killing men and women who looked no different from any other man and woman Jake had seen in this country who hadn't been carrying a gun. He pulled the trigger. And killed. He kicked down a table and dived after it as gunfire ripped through the building. He popped up, killing the woman who'd been shooting at him. The ZLF were killers. He was a killer. Right now, a slightly better one.

They never said anything. They just tried to kill him as well.

It was Yaracuy all over again. Especially when as they advanced down a street, a car pulled up with a fixed machine gun. Unlike Yaracuy, the rubble provided lots of cover.

"Keep down!" Torregrosa said. "Dragon's coming!"

"Dragon," Jake whispered. "We're using a Dragon?"

They were. A C-21 Dragon. Hovering above the city, unimpeded by any ordinance that could possibly harm it. Not that this stopped the ZLF from trying. Up ahead, Jake could see flashes of gunfire, the bullets hitting its hull. And doing nothing.

_Stop, _he wished towards them. _Just stop. It's over. Don't make it another Boraure._

But the ZLF kept firing. And Jake knew what would follow.

With a roar, like the creature of its namesake, the Dragon let loose its payload. Missiles targeted any armour, sentry guns tore through flesh and bone. It was a dragon. Breathing fire.

"War's over," one of Torregrosa's marines murmured as the ZLF soldiers were consumed in the inferno. As their gun emplacements were destroyed, as an entire city block became rubble in less than a minute. "It's finally fucking over."

Over for the ZLF at least, Jake reflected. Because as they kept moving up the street, no more resistance came their way. The Dragon hovered overhead, its four turbo-fans sending blasts of hot air downwards. Jake wiped his lips, feeling how cracked they were Hoping for rain. Anything to hydrate him. Anything to wash away the blood.

"The sun's rising," Fran whispered.

And it was. To the east. A red dawn. A red day. After a red night. He looked at her, and she nodded. He looked at Nieto, and he just stared back. He looked ahead, at the devastation. The bodies. The collapsed buildings. He stopped walking. And stared.

Stared for a thousand yards.

* * *

><p><strong>July 20, 2145<strong>

Jake remained seated when Lieutenant House relayed the news to them as he visited the battlefield. Pockets of resistance remained. ZLF cells were still active in the country. But for all intents and purposes, the war was over. The Venezuelan government would be handed control at an indeterminate point in time, and the USMC would remain to keep the peace.

Peace. Sitting amongst the rubble, Jake wondered what it even meant.

He wanted for it to feel like victory. To say, "good won. Evil lost." But he couldn't. The ZLF had lost, true. But after all he'd seen, all he'd heard, he wasn't sure what that even meant. Only that those with superior firepower had emerged the victors.

He kept sitting, even as House ended the speech. Fiddling with his dog tags. Sully, Jacob. USMC. Social security number, as if that even mattered. Religion, none. Though he supposed if he did believe in some invisible sky daddy, reincarnation, or any of the other bullshit humanity had fed itself over its history, it wouldn't have mattered right now either. This was the real world. And the real world was terrible. Where people killed because of differences in nation, ideology, religion, ethnicity. Abstract concepts that generated physical actions. Many of them horrific. Where even burial rituals didn't matter because cremation was the way to go due to lack of space.

He looked at Nieto, his face to the ground, his hands in a fist he was slowly shaking. He looked at Fran, her head rested against his shoulder. He looked at Torregrosa, smoking. He closed his eyes.

Challow. Hung. Sejal. Their eyes were open. Staring at him. And keeping those eyes closed, he put his flask to his lips. Letting the liquid of life enter his body, attempting to cleanse himself from the smell of death.

_Here's to victory._

House finished his speech. Cheers rang out.

_Here's to the dead._

* * *

><p><em>AN_

_This was perhaps the most difficult chapter to write, even more so than the last one. In all honesty, from a structural standpoint, I admit that it's weak, that it's effectively two sections (pre-capital, and capital itself) welded into one. Normally I'd have separated these sections, but to meet the seven chapter challenge, I had to have them together. _

_Anyway, not too much more to say. Challow originally wasn't supposed to die here, but I decided to go ahead anyway, as what was coming up in the story...well, I'll cover that later. Also, the AMP suit - I once considered having more of them present, even in the previous chapter, but decided against it. Thing is, walkers, or at least bi-pedal walkers, aren't that practical from a military standpoint, given that the legs are an obvious weak point, and how a centre of gravity has to be maintained. From the point of view of the film by itself, AMPs are perfect for Pandora, in that they're easy to move around in the jungle, and the na'vi don't have explosives that could disable the legs in the same way human weaponry did. From a human vs. human standpoint however, their practically is limited. And as _Avatar _more or less gravitates towards the "hard" end of the sci-fi spectrum (Eywa notwithstanding), thought it best to follow suit._


	6. Green

**Avatar: Rainbow**

**Chapter 6: Green**

**October 16, 2145**

**Camp Liborio,**

**Amazonas**

"Hey, amigo. Cómo has estado?"

Jake smiled faintly at Nieto's words. Amigo. He liked to consider that Nieto was still his friend. And for his second question, he was as okay as he could be, given the circumstances.

"Well, anyway," Nieto continued, his face filling the computer screen. "Got limited transmission time too, so, er, gotta find something new to talk about."

Talk. The smile faded. Jake wanted talk as well. It was hard to talk with someone who was stationed on the moon – even if this had been a direct link, they'd have to deal with just over one second of light lag. Not much by itself, but seconds had a way of building up.

"Well, the scenery's bad. Earth doesn't look too shabby from up here but…" Nieto sighed, rubbing his hands together, leaning back in his chair. Jake looked at the dorm behind him, how sterile and cramped it looked. Even here in Camp Liborio, with barracks being nothing more than tents that crawled with insects, it still allowed him more breathing room. Not to mention free oxygen.

"Well, we both know what it's like on Earth really, don't we?" Nieto asked. "I've seen photos of what Earth looked like from space in the twentieth century. Greener, for one thing. More land showing as well." He rubbed his eyes. "I mean, if you're watching this I'm assuming you're not dead. But even if you're some kind of ghost in the machine, well…" He sighed. "Sorry amigo. I suck at this."

Jake remained silent, rubbing the hair growing around his chin. He needed a shave, he reminded himself. With the hair he felt old. Far older than his physical age of 19. His birthday had come and gone, he'd got drunk, and he'd kept on living as best he could.

"Look, Jake," Nieto said. "You haven't sent a message in awhile. And I get you not wanting to."

Jake kept rubbing his growing beard.

"But…I had to do it, ya know? No la familia left on Earth, comprendes? The RDA, they pay me. Not shot at on moon. Guard duty and…" He sighed again. "Lake Maracaibo Jake, I told you then. After Maracaibo itself…well, you know what they say. In space, no-one can hear you shout."

"Scream," Jake murmured, still watching the recorded message. Its timer was running out.

"Nos vemos, amigo," Nieto said. "Adios."

And the message ended. And Jake was left with the look of a blank screen. Or at least he was until the **RETURN MESSAGE? **option appeared. As it always did. And like he'd done for the past month or so, Jake hit the "escape" key. Did it and leant back in his chair, feeling the autumn breeze blow against his back. Listen to the rain coming down on the tent itself. Luxuries that weren't provided on the moon. But he had to admit, perhaps the only luxuries he had left.

Nieto had been gone for two months. He'd taken the RDA's offer to join SecOps and had been posted as a security guard at one of the RDA's helium-3 mines, the regolith being shipped back to a resource-starved Earth. Perhaps someday, he'd be deployed to Pandora to keep the flow of unobtanium coming. Perhaps someday he'd been in combat again. But Jake had made these arguments already, when he'd tried to stop Nieto from leaving. Arguments that included phrases like "glorified security guard," and "there's no such thing as an ex-marine." Arguments that had failed. And left him in the position of wanting to talk, but unable to say anything now. Nieto had walked out. And he had nothing to say.

And yet deep down, he couldn't blame Nieto. Less chance of getting shot at was a definite pro, but he'd seen the look in his friend's eyes when he'd last seen him, before he'd stepped onto the RDA Samson that would take him to a ship that would in turn deliver him to the space elevator in Honduras. Nieto was taking the route that would save his mind, as well as his body. He knew the look in his eyes, because it was the same look he saw in his own in the rare event of seeing a mirror. If the eyes were the window into the soul, they were saying that their souls had been damaged.

Nieto had left to save his soul. Or conscience. Or whatever. And Jake couldn't blame him.

_And yet I'm still here._

Thunder boomed, and the rain began to come down harder. Jake rubbed his eyes, yawning, fighting the effects of sleep deprivation. He saw them at night. Hung, blowing his brains out. Sejal, meeting a similar fate. The top half of Challow, crawling towards him through the dark of his nightmares. The faces of those he'd killed. Often indistinct, but faces all the same. Crying and screaming in a symphony of rage and sorrow.

_Murderer._

He opened his eyes, still yawning.

_Murderer._

It was time to use his transmission allowance. Even if it was a lost cause.

_Murderer._

He began the message. A message that would be sent to the personal terminal of Tom Sully, located in Stanford, California, over 5000 kilometres away. A message like almost every other one he'd sent over the last three months, and one that would almost certainly not be returned.

"Hey Tom."

But the message had begun. And he leant forward, resting his chin on his right hand.

"Neat huh?" He gestured to the tattoo that he got. Some weird symbol that covered his upper right arm, the meaning of which he had no idea. "Little souvenir I picked up from a visit to San Carlos de Río Negro. That's the state's capital by the way, but hey, egghead such as yourself probably knows that."

Egghead. Jake regretted his words immediately. Then said "screw it" to the regrets a second later. Tom had never responded to any of his messages since Camp Bianco, and chances were that he wasn't even looking at them.

It was also a good sign that he was insane – doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result. Even centuries after his death, Albert Einstein haunted the world.

_Tom's probably his biggest fan._

"So, what else can I say?" Jake continued. "Well, we're still stationed in Amazonas, and like the rest of this part of the world, it's a wasteland." He laughed bitterly. "Yeah, that's right. The Amazon used to be here. Before it was cut down for wood and farmland. Before the last few remnants were saved, said remnants now hiding ZLF splinter cells." He kicked the table the terminal rested on. "I mean, fuck, we're not even in Zulia anymore. What they even playing at?"

He knew the answer. They weren't. They were just fighting. Like him, it was the only thing they had left to do. To fight. Even if it was in a near wasteland like Amazonas, part of a greater region that extended across most of Brazil.

"The jungle," Jake said, rubbing his eyes. "I mean…I'm not a tree hugger but…what it must have been like…"

He kept rubbing. And the voices returned. His accelerated heart rate. The pain in his chest.

"Tom," he said, leaning forward to the monitor, rubbing his chest as he did so. "I…I need someone to talk to, okay? Not the psych, not some shrink, just…_someone_. Just…let me know you're getting these messages." He tried to stifle his breathing, resulting in a hiccup. And a sob. And tears starting to come down his face, as steadily as the rain outside. "Just…let me know you're listening. I need…"

He stopped talking. He stared at the screen, still showing the placeholder image of Tom's dorm. The image that had been unchanged for months. He pressed "enter." And leant back in his chair.

"Family problems?"

He ignored Fran as she walked up to him from behind. Well, he assumed it was Fran, but unless someone had stolen her voice, he had no idea how it _couldn't _be Fran.

"Nieto, your brother. Sucks, huh."

"I beat all the games on Nieto's Orca ages ago," Jake murmured. "I'm out of things to say."

"Course you beat them. You just ran through every game without doing any of the side-quests."

"I get things done, I don't care about the distractions" Jake murmured, still keeping his eyes on the screen. Still ignoring her.

"And your brother?" Fran asked. How's he?"

"Don't know," Jake said. He got up, meeting Fran's gaze. The same tired gaze that had existed in her for as long as he'd known her. Only without the haunted look. As if she'd been haunted her entire life, and this hellhole was just the latest circle of Hell, instead of the first one.

"And I don't care either," he said. "He wants to be a dick, he can be a dick."

"And you aren't?"

Jake glanced at her.

"I mean, have you asked him how he's coping? What he's studying? How he feels about it?" Jake kept glaring at her demeanor shifted. "Jake, I get it. You're worked up. Tom can't imagine what you're going through. But have you tried to understand what _he's _doing?"

"He's in the Avatar Program so he can go to Pandora, walk around like a blue jackass, and get some native tail. That's all he's doing."

"Jake," Fran said. "I know what you're going through."

"Don't bullshit me Ghost." He kept glaring. "I don't need it from you."

"Jake, I see-"

"You didn't see Hung blow his brains out. You didn't train with Challow only to see him blown apart." He took a step towards her. "Like I said Fran. Don't bullshit me."

"Fine," she said. "You're right. And hey, I have no parents. No brother who's actually still alive." She sighed. "But we've still got a job to do. She turned around to exit the tent, opening the flap halfway. "But think about it while we're on the Samson Jake. Think before you lose your mind."

And she left. Leaving Jake alone. No-one else was in the tent. Camp Liborio was operating as a skeleton base. Like the state it was in, barren and desolate.

And Jake laughed.

Alone. Daring to think Tom might give a damn. Fran's own impudence. His inability to contact Nieto.

He'd always been alone.

* * *

><p>Corporal Jake Sully, member of fourth platoon, second squad, under the command of Sergeant Nicole Torregrosa. It was a position he'd held since Maracaibo, as the remainders of 1st Force Recon were consolidated into combined units. Strictly support nowadays, such as the milk run they were now on. Flying over the jungle of Amazonas in a Samson, watching the scenery pass by while staring down the sights of an M60 machine gun while wearing Viper armour. Watching out for any ZLF forces on the ground, to remind them that the skies were held by machines of death.<p>

It had been like this for a month, so far without any confrontation. It was the same jungle over and over.

"Waste of time," he heard Rogers murmur. He glanced back into the passenger hold. "I mean seriously, what's the point? We can't see through the trees, and drones could do a better survey job. Why the fuck are we even here?"

"You want to know what I think Private?" Torregrosa asked.

"Sure."

"Too bad. I'm not paid to think."

Laughter rippled throughout the cabin. Jake kept staring out into the jungle, receiving rain from the heavens. Thunder rolled in the background, temporarily eclipsing the hum of the Samson's rotors.

"Cheer up Jake."

He looked at Fran, leaning over towards him, holding the hand rail above her. Lightning flashed behind her, as if to say "pay attention."

"Just a milk run," she said.

He sighed.

"What?" she asked.

"Oh, y'know," he said. "I'm trying to think of a good joke about milk, but I've got nothing."

More silence covered the cabin. A silence that not even the engines could break. He kept looking out across the jungle. It was small, and he could see the barren landscape that surrounded it. Tom had once told him about islandisation, that even preserved patches of an ecosystem couldn't act as a safeguard against extinction due to lack of area available, or viable means of natural connection between different areas. And…He swallowed. Tom. Even thinking of him was painful. It was like he could suddenly remember everything his brother had said. About the war. The oil that had now been secured in the north. The effects of de-forestation and climate change. It was like the jungle, in all its ragged, defiant glory, was mocking him for it.

"It's so quiet."

He looked at Fran.

"The jungle," she said. She glanced at him. "Did you know that there were once over one-thousand bird species in the Amazon a few centuries ago?"

"No."

"Shame." She leant out further. "The harpy eagle, the hoatzin, the toucan…"

"When did you become an ornithologist?"

"When did you start using such fancy words?"

Jake kept his gaze focused on the jungle. The silent jungle, not stretching as far as the eye could see, but still some of the last natural habitat on this God-forsaken planet. "My brother couldn't resist blabbing about this crap. After nineteen years, it rubs off on you." He looked at her. "What about you?"

"We've been stationed here for a month," she said. "I figure it's good to learn about the place. Its fauna, its flora, the people."

"You think that'll help?"

"You think it wouldn't?" she asked. "There's thousands of languages spoken on this planet, all trying to co-exist within just over two-hundred nation states. There's examples of ethnic groups who developed their cultures within miles of each other and ended up with completely different vocabularies."

"I don't need a geography lesson."

"Think about it though," Fran said. Why do you think the Avatar Program exists for instance? Why interpreters are so valuable?"

"The Avatar Program?"

"You told me your brother was training for it, remember? And again, why do you think it exists?"

He didn't answer. He knew what it was – understanding. The chance to minimize conflict. But he kept silent. He understood why the ZLF were fighting. Why they were still fighting even now, the irony that peace between humans and aliens seemed more likely between humanity itself. Even if he couldn't bring himself to explain it to Tom. And-

"I like learning stuff," Fran said. "Maybe it's my background – I come from another country, and I can't even speak a single word of its language."

"You ever tried?"

"Yes," she said. "And I still can't. I suck at speaking languages Jake. But that doesn't mean I don't want to learn." She cast a hand out of the Samson, towards the cold air and the jungle below. "Take this for example. We're flying over what remains of what was once the largest rainforest on Earth. We'll never be able to experience what it was once like, or live long enough to see it returned, if by some miracle it can even be saved." She sighed. "Like I said, I like learning. Even if it's only through the Ethernet or whatnot."

Jake raised an eyebrow. Those words. They were the kind of words that Tom would have said. Probably words he _had _said at some point.

"Anyway," Fran said. "No use moping. I mean-"

"Incoming!"

It was Bergman who called it out. The marine manning the other M60. And it was the last words Jake ever heard from the man as something hit the Samson, exploding. An explosion that sent Bergman flying out of the ship and the M60 down with him. And the ship itself into a tailspin.

"Brace!" Torregrosa yelled. "Brace brace brace!"

Jake held on tight to the rail as the Samson spun, heading down to the jungle below. From the jungle, he could hear another sound. Gunfire. The sound of RPGs. Carrying above the roar of the engines, and the screaming siren in the ship itself.

"Hold on!" Torregrosa yelled. "Hold on!"

He did. Hard. Struggling to keep his grip, to avoid falling out of the craft. He looked at Fran, terror in her eyes as she did the same thing. At Torregrosa, at Rogers, at Negeri.

"Mayday, mayday, Samson-eight-eight going down," he heard a voice from the pilot. "We have been downed by enemy fire, request evac. I repeat, we-"

The Samson crashed through the trees. Still spinning. He felt himself lifted off the floor as the G-forces took hold. As he still held on.

_Don't let go._

"Mayday, mayday-"

"Hold on!"

"Jake!"

He looked at Fran. Held up into the air as well. Her eyes wide.

"We're going down!"

"I'm losing my grip!"

He reached out for her. Holding onto the rail with one hand.

"Help!"

Reached further…further…

"Jake!"

Touched her fingers.

"Help me!"

And watched Francine Kwalu fly out of the Samson. Her body going into the jungle.

"Fran!" he yelled. "Fran!"

It was too late. She was gone. Like Challow. Like Hung. Like Nieto.

"Fran!"

Gone.

"Mayday, mayday, we-"

_Gone._

The ship hit the ground.

* * *

><p>Jake's head was spinning. And thumping. Like an insane drummer was using it as an instrument and spinning the instrument around as he hit him with sticks.<p>

"Sully!"

Well, _something _was hitting him at least. Though more like a tapping on the shoulder.

"Sully!"

And something was hitting the ship. Ping-ping-ping. Lots of pings really, almost as if bullets were hitting the Samson.

"Sully, get up!"

Scratch that. Bullets _were _hitting the Samson. And while they weren't hitting him (not yet at least), he was still being hit by Torregrosa.

"Sully, move it!"

He blinked as he was drawn out of the rain. Yes, it was raining, he hadn't even been aware of it for the last few seconds. But as his vision cleared, he became aware of a lot of things.

"Pilot's dead!" came a voice. One followed by gunfire. More bam-bam-bam than pings.

"Fran," Jake whispered.

"Fuck!" Torregrosa yelled, firing her own rifle. "Did that mayday get through?"

"Where's Fran?" Jake whispered again.

"Hell if I know!" More "bams" followed.

"Fran-"

Torregrosa slapped him. Then dragged him up by the scruff of his neck. His eyes met hers. And he blinked.

"Kwalu's dead! The pilot's dead, Bergman's dead, Rogers is dead, and we'll all be fucking dead if you don't open fucking fire!"

"Rogers is dead?"

"Killed in the crash!"

Near the front of the cabin was Rogers. His body looked fine. But he wasn't breathing.

More pings sounded. And Jake's vision cleared some more. Enough to see muzzle flashes from throughout the jungle. Hitting the downed Samson. Not only had the ZLF hit the Samson with an RPG, but they had enough small arms to kill the remaining three survivors.

"Damn it Sully you green?!" Torregrosa yelled, firing her own rifle through the crew compartment, now serving as a bunker. She cursed as she took cover from more gunfire. "Fucking! Shoot!"

Green. He wasn't green. He'd stopped being green in a time he could barely remember. He went for his rifle.

"On the M-sixty dumbass!"

The M-60. The only one remaining on the Samson. Open to enemy gunfire, designed more as a support weapon to be fired from the air than a fixed position. Viper armour was lightweight, designed for mobility more than protection. It could stop small arms fire, but not on this level.

"Damn it Sully, shoot!"

But it didn't matter. These people were trying to kill him. So all he could do was one thing – fire back.

"Get some!"

It was Torregrosa who yelled it. Yet it was Jake who pulled the trigger. 7.62x51mm NATO rounds went hurtling into the forest, all in short, controlled bursts. Drum-fed, carrying 450 rounds.

"Come get some!"

Jake kept firing. One burst after another. Muzzle flashes erupted from the rainforest in response. He fired back at them. Sometimes, the muzzle flashes stopped.

"Don't get it," Negeri said, firing his own rifle from the other side. "They've got RPGs. They could just take us out."

Jake kept firing. Still in bursts.

"Salvage," Torregrosa said, firing her own rifle. "They want the ship intact."

Gunfire hit the Samson. Jake winced as the bullets hit the frame around him. He looked up at Torregrosa. The look in her eyes said one thing – "keep firing."

So he did. One burst after another. And another. And another. And-

"Fuck!"

Torregrosa looked at him.

"It's empty!"

Jake scrambled to the other side of the cabin. There were three marines covering two main openings to the ship. With more ammunition, the ship might have been near un-takeable especially as the crash had crushed so many trees, the ZLF couldn't hope to rush them (though by extension also had abundant cover). But they'd been on a milk run. A combined total of 950 rounds between the two weapons should have been enough for anything.

"Here," Torregrosa said, tossing Jake a rifle. "Make it count."

It was a standard issue ARGO-III. 48 rounds per magazine. But with the ability to fire single shots.

Bam. Bam. Bam. Torregrosa and Negeri kept firing.

Which Jake did as well. Through the rain, into the jungle, not aware if he was hitting anything. No way of telling if reinforcements would arrive at all. All that was left was to keep firing. To keep the enemy from advancing.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

None of them did. Part of his mind wanted them to, to act as a horde. People he could shoot.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

But they didn't. They kept firing, but never advanced. And as he fired, Jake knew why. They were human. They were willing to fight for freedom, but still wanted to live.

Bam. Bam. Bam.

_This is suicide._

The sound of a rifle was very different to that of a machine gun. If the ZLF had any brains, they would deduce that the M60 was out of ammo. Here and there, Jake saw figures making their way through the jungle. Firing as they went. Not particularly accurate fire, but enough to keep pummeling the Samson. To keep its occupants pinned as they moved in for the kill.

"Shit!"

Negeri fell down into the cabin, blood pouring from his right leg. "Fuckers got me!"

"Here," Torregrosa said, handing her weapon to Jake. An EURYS-II assault rifle. "Cover both sides, and keep firing!"

Jake did so, his body on auto-pilot. One side of the Samson to the next. He kept it up as Torregrosa bound Negeri's wound. He kept firing as the marine screamed. He only stopped firing when the clip was expended. And resumed as soon as Torregrosa threw him another one.

"Shit!"

He spun around, firing through the glass of the cockpit. A ZLF soldier had got on top of it, ready to fire down into the cabin. Jake shot him.

He didn't stop. He ran to the cockpit and kicked out the rest of the glass. He kept firing at the horde…no, squadof ZLF soldiers that were advancing. They took cover amongst the foliage, amongst the fallen trees. He was hitting nothing.

"Can't hold," he heard Negeri murmur. He was back on his feet, firing a pistol through one side of the cabin. "Can't fucking hold…"

ZLF were steadily advancing. Using cover intelligently. Jake fired another burst, and saw one fall, but whether he killed the man (or woman, he couldn't tell) was yet another unknown.

"Sully!" Torregrosa yelled. "Check the radio!"

Jake glanced at it. It was fried. Destroyed in the crash and-

"Shit!"

Torregrosa fell back, blood coming out of her arm. She dropped her rifle and kept firing with a pistol.

**Boom.**

Puffs of dirt started erupting around the Samson. Grenades, Jake reflected. All they had to do was get one in and-

"Grenade!"

He turned around to the cabin. A grenade had been lobbed into it. Torregrosa looked at it. Negeri grabbed it and threw it out. It got a few metres into the air before it exploded. Taking a good piece of Negeri's face with it. But not his mouth. He could still scream as his face blistered.

Jake ran over, grabbing Negeri by the neck. Firing out into the jungle with his rifle (one-handed), at the squads approaching the Samson, though hitting nothing. He looked at Torregrosa, saw the look in her eyes. A different look from what it had been a few minutes ago. The look that said "we're dead."

Jake turned around. He fired more rounds through the cockpit. Again, he didn't hit anything.

But the missiles did.

_The hell?_

Dirt, blood, and bodies went flying through the air. Gunfire added to the effect. Jake crouched down in the cabin, listening to the shots, the screams, and Negeri's moaning.

"Samsons," Torregrosa whispered. Her eyes changed again. They showed confidence. Excitement.

Negeri coughed. And all Jake could think about was the man beside him. At Fran. Even Rogers and Bergman. People that were dead, or dying. Like those outside.

"Hear that Negeri?" Torregrosa asked, kneeling down beside the wounded man. "Birds are here."

Jake peaked out the cabin opening. The ZLF were falling back. Looking up above, he could see two Samsons in the air, firing towards the ground.

_Come on, run, _Jake thought. And he wondered what he even meant by that. Run, so that there'd be less casualties? Or run, because he hated them, and wanted them to die in terror? That these were the people who'd killed his friends. People who'd sentenced thousands to risk of starvation through the destruction of an agri-complex. People whom he'd fought, and killed. People whom he hated. People who hated him.

The rain kept coming down. Falling onto the bodies. Washing away the blood, as if it had never been there.

Torregrosa threw a flare out into the open. Its red light shone through the rain. Steadily, one of the Samsons began to descend.

"Come on Sully, move it," she said. "Help me get Negeri."

Jake remained silent and kept staring out into the rain. The Samsons had stopped firing. The ZLF had retreated. He felt…right now, he didn't know what he felt. In one eye, he could see the bodies of those who'd fallen to the Samsons' firepower. In the other, he could see Fran. Challow. People killed by the enemy.

"Sully!"

He turned around and knelt down, picking up Negeri by the shoulders. The man was quieter now, though his face was just as bad – a mishmash of blood and burnt tissue. If he was lucky, he'd survive. If he was really lucky, he'd even be able to see again.

"Now move!"

The two marines went out of the Samson, headed for the one that was hovering above the ground. Gusts of air blew towards Jake, mixing in with the rain that was carried on Mother Nature's breath.

"Nearly there," Torregrosa said. "Nearly there Negeri. We'll get you patched up, hell, maybe even give you leave. Family, friends, all waiting for you."

Negeri whispered something. Jake winced as gunfire continued. Coming from all directions bar the squad that deployed from the Samson that was still hovering.

"Samson eight-seven, responding to your mayday," the squad leader said. A sergeant by the name of Borough, going by the name on his combat garb. "Is this it?"

"Yeah," Torregrosa said. "I've got three KIA. A pilot, two marines. Both fell out of the vehicle when we went down."

"Alright," Burrough said. He gestured to two of his men. "Mann, Vaughn, bag and tag the pilot. We-"

Gunfire erupted. And Jake dropped Negeri as the wounded man's body erupted with spurts of blood.

"Fuck!"

The ZLF were advancing again. Even with the Samsons present, they were still firing. And Negeri had paid the price. As had Fran. And Rogers. And so many others. Even the ZLF themselves.

"Move!" Burrough yelled.

Jake went to pick up Negeri's body. Torregrosa grabbed him and pulled him away, yelling "he's dead Sully." As they ran through the rain, he could hear another set of engines. Louder. Larger. Engines carrying a Dragon.

"The Dragon will torch the place!" Burrough yelled. "We-"

And he fell as gunfire tore into his side. Jake stopped running. He grabbed his arm. And began pulling Burrough across the dirt.

The Dragon opened fire, missiles and 50mm rounds erupting from its weapon emplacements. The treeline erupted in flames. The ZLF had a choice of being shot or burnt. Maybe that's why they kept firing.

_This is wrong._

Jake kept pulling the sergeant as another marine helped him. Kept pulling as he thought of the men and women who were on the receiving end of the Dragon. Fighting because it was the only thing they could do now. He could imagine the bullets bouncing off against the Dragon's hull.

_Just end it, _he thought. _End it._

Who could end it, he didn't know.

He kept pulling. And remembered Fran, who'd fallen to her death less than ten minutes ago. Challow, who'd been blown apart. Hung, Sejal, even Rogers. People who'd died because of the ZLF, one way or another. He wanted to hate them for doing this. But he heard the screams. And the gunfire. And felt…nothing.

It would never end, he told himself. Maybe this war would. Certainly this skirmish had an end. But this scene, this method of human interaction…it had existed as long as humanity had. People would kill, and be killed. Whether it be through sticks and stones, or through bullets and missiles.

He helped Burrough into the Samson and took a breath. Nothing. Right now, in this time and place, he felt nothing. Bar that he wanted the Dragon to stop firing. For the ZLF to stop firing. For some of the last rainforest on Earth to stop burning. To never see something like this again.

"Move it Sully!"

He put one forward into the cabin. And-

"Gah!"

Collapsed as something tore through his back. Torregrosa and another marine grabbed his arms and pulled him into the cockpit. The ship started to take off.

"Fuck!" Torregrosa yelled. "Sniper round!"

Jake tried to stand as Burrough yelled for the craft to get airborne.

"Sully? You okay?!"

He tried to stand. But couldn't. He could move his arms, sure. But below the waistline…

"His spine," he heard a voice say. "It tore right through his spine!"

He began to tremble, going into shock. His vision flashed.

"I can't feel my legs…"

"Pilot! Get on the horn to Liborio!" Burrough shouted, making his way to the cockpit. We've got two wounded, and-"

"I can't feel my legs…"

Jake was held by Torregrosa. Behind him lay death and despair. A fire raging against the wind and rain. As the people who'd tried to kill him burnt to death. Fighting to the last. And again he tried to stand. And again he couldn't, as his legs wouldn't move. He began to scream. Flail with his arms. Try to make his legs, feet, even his toes move. He reached for his back. Felt the blood at the base of his spine.

"**I can't feel my legs!"**

* * *

><p><em>AN_

_This chapter was comparatively easy to write, but what hammered me most of all was choosing exactly what was to happen. I always knew that this was the chapter were Jake would be paralyzed, but apart from that, I'd got nothing solid. What I ended up writing was actually at least the fourth conception of this chapter that I had._

_The first was the idea was that Jake would be operating under Challow's command, that he'd end up running off to save a village or something, Challow would object, Jake would get paralyzed. I ended up shooting that down for various reasons, and if anything, version 4 is kind of an intentional inversion of idea 1. It's also why I decided to kill Challow off in the previous chapter._

_The second idea was to have the paralyzing shot be without buildup, and to possibly take place in an urban environment. In essence, I was taking inspiration from the ending sequence of _Full Metal Jacket_, a sequence I'd admittedly never seen, but hey, YouTube could solve that. Ended up abandoning it because...well, I was copy-pasting from another work. Yeah, this is fanfic, but I could at least try to be original. That, and it raises issues with the title - green. Yeah, shouldn't that be in a jungle?_

_So, third version, the idea that Samsons could come in and obliterate a ZLF base, mimicking the destruction of Hometree. The idea was that it would be Jake observing what is essentially the same event, from a different angle. More problems though, in that it still has to fit in the paralysis. And the idea of mimicry...it can work, but it has to be done well. The more I thought about it, the more the parallel felt forced. That, and the Hometree sequence itself...my interpretation of it is that the tragedy is less to do with the destruction of the tree, and more the situation that led up to it. I say this because of the way the scene is shot, showing events back at Hell's Gate, and the looks of guilt, dismay, etc. on the faces of the staff, even Parker. Less that the event is happening, more the fact that it didn't need to. In contrast, I felt the best I could aim for here was "war is bad." _

_So, fourth version, namely the one above. Kind of an incorporation of various ideas, hopefully working out in terms of both content and context._


	7. Purple

.

**Avatar: Rainbow**

**Chapter 7: Purple**

_In his dreams, Jake flew._

_Not in a Samson. Or a Dragon. Or even the strato-transport that had brought him home. No. He himself, soared through the sky_

_The jungle was below. Endless. Stretching from one horizon to the next. There was no sound. No birds, no wind, nothing. Just the jungle. The mysterious land that he flew over._

"_Jake?"_

_A voice called to him, but he ignored it. He stretched out his arms, letting the dream be his wings. He stretched out his legs, carrying him forward, preventing reality's intrusion._

"_Jake?"_

_The voice came again, but he continued to fly. Faster and faster, closer to the trees. So close he could smell them. The type of smell that came from soil after rain._

"_Jake, are you awake?"_

_And the voice continued. But he continued to fly. Then…_

…_the smell changed. He smelt something different. Blood._

_He tried to scream, but couldn't. He tried to fly higher, but the dream wouldn't let him. He soared faster and faster, closer and closer. And then…then he felt it. And did scream, as something tore through him. From his stomach to his spine. _

_And he fell. Shouting. Screaming. Towards the jungle floor. To the soil that smelt of blood. To the bodies that lay there, some staring downwards, some upwards. Some he could see the faces of. Some he recognised._

_He hit the ground. He struggled to get free as the mud drew him downwards. As the bodies came to life, grasping him. Begging him to set them free as well. He struggled. He fought. He screamed._

_And then he woke up._

* * *

><p><strong>October 26, 2145<strong>

**West Roxbury Campus, Veteran Affairs Healthcare System**

**Boston**

"Gah!"

Jake shot upwards in his bed, sweating despite the room's climate control system. All he was wearing was a hospital gown, complimenting the bandages that wrapped their way around his waistline. If not for that, and the pain he felt in the upper part of his body to compliment the lack of any feeling that came from below, he might have found it enjoyable to be awake. And to see Nurse Andrea Ivanov looking down at him, wearing the smile that a nurse gave every patient. The type of smile Jake had seen back in Camp Bianco when he'd suffered from heatstroke. The type of smile that meant nothing.

"Bad dreams?" she asked, still smiling as she cleared his breakfast tray of the water and algae that had sufficed as food.

Jake murmured something non-committal as he closed his eyes, rubbing his nose.

"If you want to see Doctor-"

"No," Jake said quickly, opening his eyes again and trying to smile as well. "They're just…dreams, okay?"

"Right," she said, clearly not convinced. "Well, if there's anything you need…a book…the grounds outside the campus are nice, if you want help with a wheelchair-"

"No," Jake repeated, just as quickly. He picked up a remote that was on his bedside table, waving it casually. "TV's got me covered."

The TV was a flatscreen that hung down from above. It was his sole companion besides Nurse Ivanov, and Doctor Hasrat, who'd been teaching him about using a wheelchair. So when not with either of them, Jake would watch what was happening. Or sleep. More and more, he'd gone towards the second option. Because his dreams, as horrible as they were sometimes, as often as he woke up sweating and screaming, were still an escape from reality. In his dreams, he could walk. Or fly.

"Right," Ivanov said, still smiling, preventing any cracks in it. "Well, like I said, if you need anything…"

She trailed off, and Jake let her. He didn't even bother to try and smile himself. Because right now, he was nothing. A nobody in a hospital that he'd be discharged from within a week. And like a nobody, as soon as Ivanov moved to her next patient, he flicked on the TV. A news channel.

It showed jets flying over a desert. Which desert, he couldn't tell, there was so much desert on the planet one would be lucky to find anything else. Pressing the mute button, he leant back in his bed and watched the spectacle unfold for a few moments before reading the news ticker down below.

_Peace talks between Zulian Liberation Front and Venezuelan government break down – landslide in China leaves hundreds dead – cloned Humpback whales returned to ocean after decades of extinction…_

He let the images play out, idly discussing whether to change the channel. Wondering whether he should get used to this. TV and sleep. The rest of his life. Plus other amenities such as food, drink…sex, if he got lucky.

_Interplanetary Commerce Commission under investigation for monopolistic practices in asteroid belt – Matanza Arms Corporation reporting ninth consecutive year of growth, as arms supply to southeast Asia proliferates – preparations for G30 summit draw protest while –_

Jake closed his eyes. There was something common in the news nowadays, he reflected. Actually, scratch that, there'd been something common for as long as he could remember. More and more taking up reading was looking like the preferred option. Or heck, videogames. He still had Nieto's Orca after all. He'd played through every game on it though, and couldn't bring himself to download any more. And the way he played them…Fran had commented on that…before she'd died…

"Didn't think you were one for watching the news Jake."

He kept his eyes closed. He recognised the voice. And because he recognised it, he didn't want to give the owner of that voice the satisfaction of knowing that he recognised it.

"Jake? You awake?"

_Awake. I'm always being asked if I'm awake._

"Yeah," he murmured, opening his eyes slowly. "I'm awake."

He met the gaze of his visitor. Without looking, he flicked the TV off. Even with the sound off, he didn't want the distraction. But he did want to play this out right. So he waited a few minutes before speaking. Before greeting the newcomer.

"Hello Tom."

* * *

><p>"<em>Hold on Jake. Hold on."<em>

_Lights flashed across Jake's eyes. He could tell he was being moved. That he was indoors. But that was all. At some point, someone had given him…something. Something that had made him drowsy. He couldn't even form the term in his mind, let alone give voice to it._

"_Alright everyone, clear a path."_

_There was a 'thump' sound. The lights were replaced by something brighter. Lights were all around…no, they weren't light. They were walls. White walls, with people clad in white, looking over him._

"_Wher…where…"_

"_Hold still," said one of the people in white. He…or she, he couldn't tell, looked over at one of the other he's or she's. "Is this right? I mean-"_

"_Just get the bullet out."_

"_ …" Jake struggled to form words. He tried to lift an arm, but could barely move it. He tried to move his legs, and nothing happened._

"_But the spine? Can't we-"_

"_Spine's gone," said the second voice. "Get the bullet out, and patch him up. That's all we can do right now."_

_Jake tried to get up. But he felt a hand on his chest, pressing him down. One of the people in white was standing over him. Shining like an angel. Ready to send him to Hell._

"_Lie down soldier."_

"_Jacob…Sully…" he whispered, as one of the people in white came over. "Corporal. JS…zero-six…thr…thr…"_

_Something was placed over his mouth. The lights began to fade._

"_Thr…thr…"_

_And then he was out._

* * *

><p>"So they removed the bullet?"<p>

"Yeah," Jake murmured. "It passed through my right side and shattered the lower part of my spine, lodging itself in the process." He hit his legs as hard as he could, feeling nothing. Only regret. Resent. To those who shot him, as well as Tom himself. "Sniper was a bastard, but he was a good shot. They identified the type as a-"

"But the spine," his brother interrupted. "Can't they fix it?"

"Oh sure," Jake said snidely. "If I have the money." He clapped his hands together, smiling. "Vet benefits, bro. I'm officially an ex-marine, free to spend the rest of my life getting fucked in a very different manner."

"Jake-"

"But of course, you know what that's like don't you?" the ex-marine continued, finally returning his gaze to his brother, standing awkwardly at his bedside. "I mean, we haven't spoken for eight months. You were quite happy rubbing eggs together while I was dying in the bush."

"Jake, I couldn't-"

"Why are you here Tom?" Jake snapped. "No, seriously, why? You can't be arsed to send a single message for eight months, yet you manage to travel across the country to gloat?" He spat at him. "Well, congratulations. You win."

"You stopped sending messages too Jake," Tom said. "I sent a message to you, one that you never replied to."

"Don't bullshit me," Jake snapped, reflecting on what Fran had told him. That she was right. Fighting back the tears as he remembered her, as her last moments flashed before his eyes. That here and now, he could only be angry at Tom, because being angry helped. "And you haven't said why you're here."

"I'm here because you're my brother Jake," Tom said. He drew up a seat and sat down in it, right beside Jake. "Last eight months have been hell, I have to be back at Stanford tomorrow for a practical. I'm sorry I couldn't-"

"Don't," Jake whispered, turning over on his side, his legs awkwardly dangling in place further down the bed. "Don't you dare talk to me about hell."

"Jake, I…" Tom sighed. "You're right. I'm sorry. I just…didn't think it would come to this, y'know? I mean…" He sighed. "Jesus Christ Jake."

Jake glanced at his brother. And for the first time in eight months, the first time since he'd entered the ward, come up to his bed, and drawn the curtains around it, really looked at him.

It was the suit that really got to him. Black blazer, white shirt, navy tie. It was like the uniform he'd worn on Family Day at Parris Island, over a year ago. Yet slightly smaller - Tom had lost weight. His hair had grown longer as well. It was like Parris Island all over again, but as if much more than a year had passed since their last meeting.

"They paying you well?" Jake murmured. "The RDA?"

"It's an internship," Tom murmured.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Like I said, it's an internship," Tom said. "They pay for the college fees, and nothing else. So in addition to working my arse off to even stand a chance of qualifying for a place in the Avatar Program, I'm spending every weekend shovelling fries and algae burgers."

"Sounds terrible."

"Yeah, it is," said Tom. "I mean, seven day weeks are-"

"No, I mean, an algae burger," Jake said. "I mean, I know hardly anyone can afford meat, but, seriously? Algae burger?"

Tom looked at him. Slowly, but surely, he began to smile. Slowly, but surely, he began to laugh. And just as slowly, and slightly less surely, Jake did likewise.

Laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he laughed. It felt…wonderful. So wonderful that he began to cry. He let the tears come, letting his Adam's apple wobble. He felt his entire upper body shake. While as always, felt nothing from the lower part. But it was the upper part, as Tom hugged him, that mattered.

"You're my brother Jake," Tom said, patting him on the back. "I'm here for you."

"Tom…thanks," Jake said, closing his eyes, slowing, but not stopping the flow of tears. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>"<em>Jacob Sully…thank you for your service…Purple Heart enclosed…blah blah blah…" He looked up at Captain Redwood, waving the letter that had arrived on his beside in the morning. "Is this a joke? Is this a fucking joke?"<em>

"_Watch your tongue Corporal."_

"_Purple Heart enclosed," he said, drawing out the small medallion. "Is that it? Shipped back stateside? Paralysed for life because some sniper got lucky?"_

"_What do you want from me Sully?" the captain asked, putting his hands in his pockets as he stood in front of Jake's bed. Part of the ward reserved for wounded soldiers at Camp Liborio. "We're sending you to West Roxbury for rehabilitation." He smiled. "The Corps takes care of its own. The benefits scheme will support you and-"_

"_Oh, right," Jake said. "Vet benefits. Can't be arsed to fit my spine can you? After all-"_

_Redwood slammed his palm against the wall Jake's bed was pushed up against. He leant down. His face like a sour cat._

"_Listen to me you little shit," he hissed. "You're not special. You're lucky to even be alive, which is more than I can say for Francine Kwalu, Harry Rogers, Lewis Bergman, and Stuart Negeri. Not to mention every other dead man and woman whose names I have the burden of remembering. If you think we have time to give every wounded sod a medal with pomp and circumstance, to spend millions on nano-tech to rebuild bones, then you've got another thing coming."_

_Jake remained silent for a moment, before asking, "and is that what you think?"_

"_No," said Redwood, his gaze softening. "But that's the reality Corporal."_

_Reality. Closing his eyes, Jake was reminded of a reality he'd been given fifteen months ago. Those welcoming words on Parris Island. Of passing through a portal, of the truths it had spoken, and the lies it hadn't. Serving one's country. "If it ain't raining, we ain't training."_

_It had never said anything about losing his friends, whether it be to suicide, departure, or the enemy. It had never said anything about the enemy himself, whom he both hated and pitied. It had never mentioned the prospect of spending the rest of his life in a wheelchair. _

"_Get some rest Sully," said Redwood, patting him on the shoulder before turning to leave. "Strato-transport leaves tomorrow. We're flying you home."_

_Jake nodded, closing his fist around the Purple Heart. Its cool, polished surface at odds with his rough, calloused hand. Of the blood that pounded in his ears._

"_Oh, and by the way," Redwood said, glancing back at his subordinate. "Sergeant Torregrosa sends her regards. She's been assigned a new squad."_

_Jake remained silent, Redwood's words lingering in his mind as the captain walked off. But not those specific ones. Rather it was the names. How easily he had remembered them. And the names he had to swear to never forget._

_Francine Kwalu. Paul Challow. Trinh Tan Hung. Harry Rogers. Lewis Bergman. Stuart Negeri. Even Felipe Nieto. Those who he had fought beside. And nearly died beside. And those he did not know who had died beside him. Even the enemy. Because even now, Jake couldn't hate them. He had, as Redwood might have put it, "no shits left to give."_

_He laid back in the bed. _

_As if dead already._

* * *

><p>"So what about Nieto? Or this Lieutenant Mori? Can they help?"<p>

"Pitch in to fix the spine? I've barely talked to Nieto in months, and I've no idea how to contact Mori." Jake sighed. "Face it Tom. Charity only goes so far."

It was dusk, the autumn light seeping in through the ward, illuminating the crisp white walls. Tom had taken off his blazer, tie, and loosened the buttons at the top of his shirt. Most of the day had been spent talking about anything other than what Jake had done, or what Tom was doing. Watching sport. Playing on their Orcas, joking that Tom was into isometric shooters out of all things (a quick distraction from study, as he'd put it). Watching football. Skimming through news before it got too depressing. Heck, even the cartoons were a welcome relief. Even teenagers, it felt good to be like children again. Tom had even showed Jake some of his textbooks, all of them on Pandora's fauna and flora. Almost all of it had gone over Jake's head, but the pictures were still nice to look at.

But the sun was setting. Tom would have to leave soon. Catch a mag-lev that would take him over 3000 miles over a period of a few hours. Powered by the unobtanium that he'd be off to help extract if he managed to get to Pandora. Because while Tom protested that that wasn't the reason, even he'd conceded that if not for the rock that powered so much of Earth (that allowed humanity to keep up its exploitation of the planet, as Tom had put it), there'd be no way of getting to the moon. It was an admission that Jake had admired. That in the day, both the RDA and USMC were willing to use the same words and platitudes to get people to work for them. To try and ignore their true missions – mine, and shoot.

"So what's the timetable?" Jake asked. "I mean, let's say you don't fail, that you get in, and get a job that doesn't involve algae burgers. What then?"

"Assuming everything goes to plan?" Tom asked. "Well, I've got two more years. Unless there's any delays, I ship out in forty-eight. Relativity aside, that means six year journey to Alpha Centauri. Five years minimum time on the moon."

Jake did the math. Even if Tom left Pandora at the earliest opportunity, that would mean that after 2148, he'd see him in 2164 at the earliest. Sixteen years bar whatever messages they sent. And even those messages were usually transmitted at light speed.

"Jake," Tom said, "let me help you. The money…God I hate to say this, but the money is good. Great, even. I sure as hell won't need it on Pandora, and if it could fix your spine-"

"Tom, I don't need charity. I-"

"Jake," Tom said, "I'm your brother. Let me do this."

Let him do this, Jake reflected. He couldn't remember Tom ever asking him for permission. Oh, he'd asked their parents, sure. Tom had always been the one to believe that it was easier to ask for permission, whereas Jake went down the road of forgiveness.

"Tom," Jake said, "you don't need my approval. I…" _Ah, screw it. _He held out a hand. "Thanks, bro. I mean…thanks."

Tom took it. "Sure Jake. Anytime." He sighed. "Or, well, quite a bit of time, but…well, hey, we'll get you through this, alright? You'll be back on your feet in no time."

Back on his feet. He wanted it, Jake realized. Tom wanted it, he wanted it, fate seemed to want it. He wanted to walk again. And right now, he couldn't think of anything, or anyone that would stop him from seizing that goal.

The last hour of Tom's visit went far quicker than Jake had anticipated. Most of it was spent laughing along with Aaron Palmer's impressions of various celebrities, as displayed on the flatscreen. But the show ended. The visit ended. With a handshake and some jabbing, Tom was forced to leave. It was Parris Island all over again. Only Tom would return to what had become his life. And Jake…He tried to smile as Tom said hie final goodbyes. Now he had two weeks of therapy, and the rest of his life to look forward to. Hell of another kind.

And an hour later, Jake was left with dinner. Algae, and water that came from the campus's water tank.

It didn't taste too bad actually.

But bitterness of another kind lay in his mouth. Because lying there, as images kept flying into his head, as he saw the faces of his friends and enemies, he was reminded of something Hung had once told him.

"_Looking back, school will probably be the best years of your life."_

And he was right, Jake reflected, as he saw Hung's death repeat itself in his mind. And Fran's death. Even Challow's death. School, as opposed to war, and a life of being cripple, had been the best years of his life.

Because back then…he had been able to actually live.

It was the thought that stayed with him right until lights out. When he went to sleep.

Hoping that the nightmares would be minimal.

* * *

><p><em>In his dreams, Jake flew.<em>

_Not in a Samson. Or a Dragon. Or even the strato-transport that had brought him home. No. He himself, soared through the sky_

_The jungle was below. Endless. Stretching from one horizon to the next. There was no sound. No birds, no wind, nothing. Just the jungle. The mysterious land that he flew over._

_There was no voice this time. And the jungle was different. The trees larger. Different from those found on Earth. And the mist. The sound of drums. He was on Pandora. All the images taken from the ones Tom had shown him. In his dreams, he was not on Earth._

_He was free._

_He stretched out his arms, letting the dream be his wings. He stretched out his legs, carrying him forward, preventing reality's intrusion. An intrusion that was never made._

_He continued to fly. Onwards, ever onwards. For all eternity. He waved his arms. Even moved his legs. He was free. There was no pain. No conflict. The jungle stretched ever onwards. He knew not how long he soared._

"_Jake?"_

_And the voice arrived. His own voice. _

"_Why are you here Jake?"_

_He kept flying. The jungle started to fade from his view._

"_Why did you fight Jake?"_

_He closed his eyes. Eyes closed in reality, eyes closed in here. Willing himself to go deeper. To enter a dream within a dream._

"_Why did you kill Jake?"_

_But the dream was pushing him out. And reality was drawing him in. To where pain existed. Where he couldn't fly. _

"_Why Jake?"_

_Reality grabbed him. He kept his eyes closed, as his tears remained within the dream._

"_Why?"_

_And he saw them. His friends. Hung, smiling. Challow, scowling. Fran, silent. Nieto, pale. His parents, as they had appeared before being cremated. The faces of his enemies. Whispering "freedom."_

I didn't want this.

_The pain in his chest returned, his breathing shallow. Pain. There was no escape from it. Pain and war, they would never end. The confrontation of the lies he had been told. And the lies he had uttered to himself. To become a warrior for hardship. To pass any test. To fight for the right side, in a world where right and wrong no longer existed. _

"_Why?"_

_The waking world, the dying planet that was Earth, beckoned. Where there was no jungle. No life. No freedom of this kind._

"_Why?"_

_And he answered._

"_I was a warrior who thought he could bring peace."_

_He began to wake. He could feel his back. And nothing below it. Reality beckoned, as did truth._

"_But in the end…you always have to wake up."_

**The End**

* * *

><p><em>AN_

_I rewatched the into of _Avatar _to get the 'feel' for this chapter. Kinda stating the obvious, but if the imagery of Pandoran rainforest at the start is meant to be taken literally, then it makes me wonder how Jake saw it - granted, that footage is probably available on Earth. It made me consider namedropping some characters (e.g. Norm), since there's nothing to say that Jake didn't know the names of the people he meets at Hell's Gate, even if he doesn't react as such. But anyway, decided to drop that. But I decided to go with the idea that he's actually seeing the jungle prior to waking up._

_So, anyway, that's that done. Thanks to those who reviewed. Don't have any other _Avatar _stories on my 'to write' list right now. Current writing focus is on a _Firefly _story titled _Seven Deadly Sins_. Similar principle to this actually - seven chapters, each being thematically tied to one of the seven cardinal sins. Go figure._


End file.
